George Henry Boker (1823–1890)

I DO assure thee, love, each kiss of thine

Adds to my stature, makes me more a man,

Lightens my care, and draws the bitter wine

That I was drugged with, while my nature ran

Its slavish course. For didst not thou untwine

My cunning fetters? break the odious ban,

That quite debased me? free this heart of mine,

And deck my chains with roses? While I can

I ’ll chant thy praises, till the world shall ring

With thy great glory; and the heaping store

Of future honors, for the songs I sing,

Shall miss thy poet, at thy feet to pour

A juster tribute, as the gracious spring

Of my abundance.—Kiss me, then, once more.