He sprang, he caught her to his breast; the maid
Smiled and lay back to look at him. He laid
Her tender body on the sloping field,
And felt her sighs in his embraces yield
A sweeter music than all birds. But she,
Lost in the love she might not know, may see
No further than his face, and yet, aware
Of her own fate, resisted like a snare.
Her own soft wishes. As she looked and saw
His eager face, the iron rod of law
Grew like a misty pillar in the sky.
In all her veins the blood’s desires die,
And then – O sudden ardors! – all her mind
And memory faded, and looked outward, blind,
Beyond their bitterness. Her arms she flung
Around him, and with amorous lips and tongue
Tortured his palate with extreme desire,
And like a Mænad maddened; equal fire
Leapt in his veins; locked close for love they lie,
The heart’s dumb word expressed without a sigh
In the strong magic of a lover’s kiss.
—Aleister Crowley, Tristram and Iseult