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!