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

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