Samre, O childhood dream
Impregnable, miserly lips,
Approach me not, remain as
A thought of beauty for morrow.
My heart is full of sweet
Void; so enter it not.
I fear it would choke
Beneath your moist, perfumed kisses,
And vanish over the horizon
Through your kohl-anointed lashes.
What has beauty taken
From you and your plaited trees?
Its lights? I would gladly diy for the light
Born of your languid glance.
Your mouth replies to a smile:
' GO , Paint the copse's flowers.''
The earth as you pass is an awakening
from the deep slumber of dream,
Joyous as if your flashing smile
were some small chink of hope.
Samra, remain one among
The unattainable;
The object of my lip's desire
And of my distraught gaze;
That morrow for which we long
And death, stealing forward, grasps.