By Sarah Williams
There, where our fingers meet,
That is the true note, Sweet :
Lean your head, so, on my breast,
For the full deep tone ;
Let the white on the brown hand rest,
Fairest, mine own.
Folded in rose-leaf mouth,
Honey secure from drouth ;
Blessèd are these among reeds,
By the flower-breath fed :
Jealous pan from his place of weeds
Thrusts forth his head.
Flutter not, perfumed air ;
Lift not her tresses fair,
Stir not the soul from its sleep ;
Let the tune dream on :
In the time when we wake to weep
All will be gone.
All the poems in this collection(Internet Archive) are wonderful.