voice:

The crimson cover of her bed

Is not so rich, nor so deeply bled

The purple-fish that dyed it red,

As when in a hot sheltered glen

There flowered these stalks of cyclamen:

(Purple with honey-points

Of horns for petals;

Sweet and dark and crisp,

As fragrant as her maiden kiss.)

There with his honey-seeking lips

The bee clings close and warmly sips,

And seeks with honey-thighs to sway

And drink the very flower away.

(Ah, stern the petals drawing back;

Ah rare, ah virginal her breath!)

Crimson, with honey-seeking lips,

The sun lies hot across his back,

The gold is decked across his wings.

Quivering he sways and quivering clings

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