Come with me, sweetheart, into Italy,

And press the burning goblet of the south

To those cold northern lips, until thy mouth

Relents beneath its draft of ecstasy.

Drink in the sun, made liquid in the breasts

Of purple grapes crushed lifeless for thy wine,

Until those over tranquil eyes of thine

Glow like twin lakes, on which the noontide rests.

Drink in the airs, those languid, vapoury sighs

Of Goddesses, whose souls live on in love,

Those amorous zephyrs, soft with plaint of dove

From flowery trees of Pagan Paradise:

Until thy brain grows hazy 'neath the fumes

Of pale camellias, passionately white,

Of scarlet roses dropping with delight

Their wanton petals in a shower of bloom.

Drink in the music of some ardent song,

Poured forth to die upon the wide, still lake,

Until the darkness seems to throb and break

In fiery stars whose pulses yearn and long.

And then drink in my love; the whole of me,

In one deep breath, one vast impassioned kiss,

That come what may, thou canst remember this:

That thou hast lived and loved in Italy.