Oh, the memorable potion of your poised lips press ,
When our mouths made music out of perfect happiness;
And that evening of quiet—a strong diet of fire—
With its spirit-soft flanes winging higher and higher,
As we felt us through feathers of our pillows ripped open—
Oh, oh! Till that magical action of our slow-moving press
Made our mouths a new music out of pure happiness!
No more higher to go—but our bodies, minds: one—
We were gains in our winning what our living had done!
Now, no, not forgotten—Never, Never! No!
No regret and no fate; again will be so.
One week more, that is all, making three altogether,
Till our one, it is won, as ripped pillows we gather!