  BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX HIS art was loving. Eros set his sign Upon that youthful forehead, and he drew The hearts of women, as the sun draws dew. Love feeds love’s thirst as wine feeds love of wine. Nor is there any potion from the vine Which makes men drunken, like the subtle brew, Of kisses crushed by kisses; and he grew Inebriated with that draught divine. Yet in his sober moments, when the sun Of radiant summer paled to lonely fall And passion’s sea had grown an ebbing tide, From out the many Memory singled one Full cup that seemed the sweetest of them all— The warm, red mouth that mocked him and denied! |
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