I first tasted under Apollo’s lips,
Love and love sweetness,
My hair is made of crisp violets
Or hyacinth which the wind combs back
Across some rock shelf;
Was made of the god of light.
His hair was crisp to my mouth,
As the flower of the crocus,
Across my cheek,
Cool as the silver-cress
On Erotos bank;
Between my chin and throat,
His mouth slipped over and over.
Still between my arm and shoulder,
I feel the brush of his hair,
And my hands keep the gold they took,
As they wandered over and over,
That great arm-full of yellow flowers.