WARNING -- Not suitable for the immature or those with weak hearts.
The Penguin Book of Love Poetry
In this close covert of a grove,
By nature formed for scenes of love,
Said Susan in a lucky hour,
Observe yon sweet geranium flower;
How straight upon its stalk it stands,
And tempts our violating hands:
Whilst the soft bud as yet unspread,
Hangs down its pale declining head:
Yet soon as it is ripe to blow,
The stem shall rise, the head shall glow.
Nature, said I, my lovely Sue,
To all her followers lends a clue;
Her simple laws themselves explain,
As links of one continued chain;
For her the mysteries of creation,
Are but the works of generation:
Yon blushing strong triumphant flower,
Is in the crisis of its power:
But short, alas! its vigorous reign,
He sheds his seed and drops again;
The bud that hangs in pale decay,
Feels not as yet the plastic ray;
Tomorrow's sun shall bid him rise,
Then too he sheds his seed and dies:
But words my love are vain and weak,
For proof let bright example speak;
Then straight before the wondering maid,
The tree of life I gently laid;
Observe sweet Sue his drooping head,
How pale, how languid and how dead;
Yet let the sun of thy bright eyes,
Shine but a moment, it shall rise;
Let but the dew of they soft hand
Refresh the stem, it straight shall stand:
Already see it swells, it grows,
Its head is redder than the rose,
Its shrivelled fruit, of dusky hue,
Now glows, a present fit for Sue:
The balm of life each artery fills,
And in o'erflowing drops distils.
Oh me! cried Susan, what is this?
What strange tumultuous throbs of bliss!
Sure, never mortal, till this hour,
Felt such emotion at a flower:
Oh serpent! cunning to deceive,
Sure 'tis this tree that tempted Eve;
The crimson apples hang so fair,
Alas! what woman could forbear?
Well hast thou guessed, my love, I cried,
It is the tree by which she dies;
The tree which could alone content her,
All nature, Susan, seeks the centre;
Yet let us still poor Eve forgive,
It's the tree by which we live;
For lovely woman still it grows,
And in the centre only blows.
But chief for thee it spreads its charms,
For paradise is in thy arms --
I ceased for nature kindly here
Began to whisper in her ear:
And lovely Sue lay softly panting
While the geranium tree was planting.
'Til in the heat of amorous strife,
She burst the mellow tree of life.
'Oh heaven!' cried Susan with a sigh,
'The hour we taste -- we surely die;
Strange raptures seize my fainting frame,
And all my body glows with flame;
Yet let me snatch one parting kiss
To tell my love I die with bliss:
That pleased, thy Susan yields her breath;
Oh! who would live if this be death!'