What do they mean, these soft-pressed hands, these glances?
What’s really said by kisses, fond embraces?
Only the heart for such, sweet girl, has phrases:
My foolish one, what head can grasp such fancies?
But when I find my kisses shunned, forbidden,
My eyes, my arms by you so oft eluded,
Mine is the tiresome task, all else excluded,
Of letting wisdom flow from lips unbidden.
Know then: in part a voice may be disarming
And by poetic heart-felt force win over.
Yet that which is most sweet it ne’er advances.
Therefore let lips and arms, with bosom, glances,
- How shall I say it? - melt into each other
To form a single tongue, as mute as charming.
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