Too ambitious boy! I did but promise thee one hour of joy. This tour thou plannest, with a heart so light, Could hardly be completed in a night. Hast thou no craving less remote than this?
I say not that: yet prithee have a care! Often audacity has proved a snare. How wan and pale do moon-kissed roses grow-- Does thou not fear my kisses, Pierrot?
As one who faints upon the Libyan plain Fears the oasis which brings life again!
Where far away green palm trees seem to stand May be a mirage of the wreathing sand.
Nay, dear enchantress, I consider naught, Save mine own ignorance, which would be taught.
[_She bends forward, their lips meet: she withdraws with a petulant shiver. She utters a peal of clear laughter._]
Why art thou pale, fond lover of the moon?
Cold are thy lips, more cold than I can tell; Yet would I hang on them, thine icicle! Cold is thy kiss, more cold than I could dream Arctus sits, watching the Boreal stream: But with its frost such sweetness did conspire That all my veins are filled with running fire; Never I knew that life contained such bliss As the divine completeness of a kiss.
Apt scholar! so love's lesson has been taught, Warning, as usual, has gone for naught.
Had all my schooling been of this soft kind, To play the truant I were less inclined. Teach me again! I am a sorry dunce-- I never knew a task by conning once.
Then come with me! below this pleasant shrine Of Venus we will presently recline, Until birds' twitter beckon me away To my own home, beyond the milky-way. I will instruct thee, for I deem as yet Of Love thou knowest but the alphabet.
In its sweet grammar I shall grow most wise, If all its rules be written in thine eyes.
[_The Lady sits upon a step of the temple, and Pierrot leans upon his elbow at her feet, regarding her._]
Sweet contemplation! how my senses yearn to be thy scholar always, always learn. Hold not so high from me thy radiant mouth, Fragrant with all the spices of the South; Nor turn, O sweet! thy golden face away, For with it goes the light of all my day. Let me peruse it, till I know by rote Each line of it, like music, note by note; Raise thy long lashes, Lady; smile again: These studies profit me.
I am but studious, so do not stir; Thou art my star, I thine astronomer! Geometry was founded on thy lip.