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Let me kiss that special kiss

The one that’s more than touch

That gentle pressing of the lips

Persuading blood to rush

 

The kiss that makes you tremble

And makes your legs go weak

A moist embrace of tenderness

That takes you to your peak

 

With a heady scent of passion

It makes your body sway

The kiss that penetrates your soul

And takes your breath away

 

It lingers for a lifetime

You never will forget

The bursting of your senses

When our emotions met.

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Lay down on your pillow

And turn the lights down low

Let me take you to the garden

Where the passion flower grows

 

Close your eyes and enter dreams

As love’s emotion sets the scene

And flitters through the garden

Where the passion flower grows

 

Touch the tender petals

Of the flower as she grows

A tentative endeavour

As your feeling overflow

 

Let me draw you to the place

Where ecstasy can be embraced

The beauty of the garden

Where the passion flower grows

 

Feel your mind exploding

In the heavy scented air

Experience the shiver

As you’re captured unaware

 

A little touch of heaven

Where imagination flows

The valley in the garden

Where the passion flower grows.

 

 

Weep, and you weep alone.

For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,

But has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer;

Sigh, it is lost in the air.

The echoes bound to a joyful sound,

But shrink from voicing care.

 

Rejoice, and men will seek you;

Grieve, and they turn and go.

They want full measure of all your pleasure,

But they do not need your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many;

There are none to decline your nectared wine,

But alone you must drink life’s gall.

 

Feast, and your halls are crowded;

Fast, and the world goes by.

Succeed and give, and it helps you live,

But no man can help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure

For a long and lordly train,

But one by one we must all file on

Through the narrow aisles of pain.

 

Today I opened wide my eyes,

And stared with wonder and surprise,

To see beneath November skies

An apple blossom peer;

Upon a branch as bleak as night

It gleamed exultant on my sight,

A fairy beacon burning bright

Of hope and cheer.

 

‘Alas’! said I, poor foolish thing,

Have you mistaken this for Spring?

Behold, the thrush has taken wing,

And Winter’s near.’

Serene it seemed to lift its head:

‘The Winter’s wrath I do not dread,

Because I am,’ it proudly said,

‘A pioneer.

 

‘Some apple blossom must be first,

With beauty’s urgency to burst

Into a world for joy athirst,

And so I dare;

And I shall see what none shall see-

December skies gloom over me,

And mock them with my April glee,

And fearless fare.

 

‘And I shall hear what none shall hear-

The hardy robin piping clear,

The Storm King gallop dark and drear

Across the sky;

And I shall know what none shall know-

The silent kisses of the snow,

The Christmas candles’ silver glow,

Before I die.

 

Then from your frost-gemmed window pane

One morning you will look in vain,

My smile of delicate disdain

No more to see

But though I pass before my time,

And perish in the grale and grime,

Maybe you’ll have a little rhyme

To spare for me.

 

 

 

 

I’ve watched you now for a full half-hour,

Self-poised upon that yellow flower;

And little Butterfly! indeed

I know not if you sleep or feed.

How motionless!—not frozen seas

More motionless and then

What joy awaits you, when the breeze

Hath found you out among the trees,

And calls you forth again!

 

This plot of orchard-ground is ours;

My trees they are, my Sister’s flowers;

Here rest your wings when they are weary;

Here lodge as in sanctuary!

Come often to us, fear no wrong;

Sit near on the bough!

We’ll talk of sunshine and of song

And summer days, when we were young;

Sweet childish days, that were as long

As twenty days are now.

 

We speak with the lip, and dream in the soul,

Of some better and fairer day;

And our days, the meanwhile, to that golden goal

Are gliding and sliding away.

Now the world becomes old, now again it is young,

But “The better” ‘s forever the word on the tongue.

 

At the threshold of life hope leads us in–

Hope plays round the mirthful boy;

Though the best of its charms may with the youth begin,

Yet for age it reserves its toy.

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn,

Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;

Laugh, heart, again in the gray twilight,

Sigh, heat, again in the dew of the morn.

Your mother Eire is always young,

Dew ever shining and twilight grey;

Though hope fall from you and love decay,

Burning in fires of slanderous tongue.

 

Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:

For there the mystical brotherhood

Of sun and moon and hallow and wood

And river and stream work out their will;

And God stands winding His lonely horn,

And time and the world are never in flight;

And love is less kind than the grey twilight,

And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

Whate’er you dream, with doubt possessed,

Keep, keep it snug within your breast,

And lay you down and take your rest,

And when you wake, to work again,

The wind it blows, the vessel goes,

And where and whither, no one knows.

 

‘Twill all be well: no need of care;

Though how it will, and when, and where,

We cannot see, and can’t declare.

In spite of dreams, in spite of thought,

‘Tis not in vain, and not for nought,,

The wind it blows, the ship it goes,

Though where and whither, no one knows.

The spirit breathes upon the world,

And brings the truth to sight;

Precepts and promises afford

A sanctifying light.

 

A glory gilds the sacred page,

Majestic like the sun;

It gives a light to every age,

It gives, but borrows none.

 

The hand that gave it still supplies

The gracious light and heat;

High truths upon the nations rise,

They rise, but never set.

 

Let everlasting thanks be thine,

For such a bright display,

As makes a world of darkness shine

With beams of heavenly day.

 

 

‘Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here,

And ease from shame, and rest from fear.

There’s nothing can dismarble now

The smoothness of that limpid brow.

But is a calm like this, in truth,

The crowning end of life and youth,

And when this boon rewards the dead,

Are all debts paid, has all been said?

And is the heart of youth so light,

Its step so firm , its eyes so bright,

Because on its hot brow there blows

A wind of promise and repose

From the far grave, to which it goes;

Because it hath the hope to come,

One day, to harbor in the tomb?

Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one

For daylight, for the cheerful sun,

For feeling nerves and feeling breath–

Youth dreams a bliss on this side death.

It dreams a rest, if not more deep,

More grateful than this marble sleep;

It hears a voice within it tell:

Calm’s not life’s crown, though calm is well.

‘Tis all perhaps which man acquires,

But it’s not what our youth desires.