The literature of kissing | Project Gutenberg

KISSES.

My heart is beating with all things that are,

My blood is wild unrest;

With what a passion pants yon eager star

Upon the water’s breast!

Clasped in the air’s soft arms the world doth sleep;

Asleep its moving seas, its humming lands;

With what a hungry lip the ocean deep

Lappeth forever the white-breasted sands!

What love is in the moon’s eternal eyes,

Leaning unto the earth from out the midnight skies!

Thy large dark eyes are wide upon my brow,

Filled with as tender light

As yon low moon doth fill the heavens now,

This mellow autumn night!

On the late flowers I linger at thy feet;

I tremble when I touch thy garment’s rim;

I clasp thy waist, I feel thy bosom’s beat,—

Oh, kiss me into faintness sweet and dim!

Thou leanest to me as a swelling peach,

Full-juiced and mellow, leaneth to the taker’s reach.

Thy hair is loosened by that kiss you gave;

It floods my shoulders o’er;

Another yet! Oh, as a weary wave

Subsides upon the shore,

My hungry being, with its hopes, its fears,

My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest,

Yet strong as is despair, as weak as tears,

Doth faint upon thy breast!

I feel thy clasping arms, my cheek is wet

With thy rich tears. One kiss, sweet, sweet. Another yet!

Alexander Smith.

GIVE ME KISSES.

Give me kisses—do not stay

Counting in that careful way;

All the coins your lips can print

Never will exhaust the mint.

Kiss me, then,

Every moment—and again!

Give me kisses—do not stop,

Measuring nectar by the drop;

Though to millions they amount,

They will never drain the fount.

Kiss me, then,

Every moment—and again!

Give me kisses—all is waste

Save the luxury we taste,

And for kissing—kisses live

Only when we take or give.

Kiss me, then,

Every moment—and again!

Give me kisses—though their worth

Far exceeds the gems of earth;

Never pearls so rich and pure

Cost so little, I am sure.

Kiss me, then,

Every moment—and again.

Give me kisses—nay, ’tis true,

I am just as rich as you,

And for every kiss I owe,

I can pay you back, you know.

Kiss me, then,

Every moment—and again!

Saxe.

TO MY LOVE.

Kiss me softly, and speak to me low;

Malice has ever a vigilant ear:

What if Malice were lurking near?

Kiss me, dear!

Kiss me softly, and speak to me low.

Kiss me softly, and speak to me low;

Envy too has a watchful ear:

What if Envy should chance to hear?

Kiss me, dear!

Kiss me softly, and speak to me low.

Kiss me softly, and speak to me low;

Trust me, darling, the time is near

When lovers may love with never a fear:

Kiss me, dear!

Kiss me softly, and speak to me low.

Saxe.

A DINNER AND A KISS.

“I have brought your dinner, father,”

The blacksmith’s daughter said,

As she took from her arm the kettle

And lifted its shining lid.

“There is not any pie or pudding,

So I will give you this.”

And upon the toil-worn forehead

She left the childish kiss.

The blacksmith took off his apron,

And dined in happy mood,

Wondering much at the savor

Hid in his humble food;

While all about him were visions

Full of prophetic bliss;

But he never thought of the magic

In his little daughter’s kiss.

And she, with her kettle swinging,

Merrily trudged away,

Stopping at sight of a squirrel,

Catching some wild bird’s lay.

And I thought, how many a shadow

Of life and fate we would miss,

If always our frugal dinners

Were seasoned with a kiss.

A HINT.

Our Daisy lay down

In her little night-gown,

And kissed me again and again,

On forehead and cheek,

On lips that would speak,

But found themselves shut, to their gain.

Then, foolish, absurd,

To utter a word,

I asked her the question so old,

That wife and that lover

Ask over and over,

As if they were surer when told!

There, close at her side,

“Do you love me?” I cried;

She lifted her golden-crowned head;

A puzzled surprise

Shone in her gray eyes—

“Why, that’s why I kiss you!” she said.

Anna C. Brackett.

THROWING KISSES.

Girlie on the stairway, mother up above;

Girlie’s eyes and mother’s full of tender love;

Girlie’s little fingers throw a hurrying kiss

Right to mother, loving, fearing not to miss;

Mother throws one downward to her Golden-hair;

Girlie cries, “They’re meeting, mother, in the air.”

By-and-by the girlie stands all, all alone,

Looking sadly upward for the mother, gone

Up the heavenly stairway. Girlie, standing here,

Knows the mother surely surely must be near.

If she throws her kisses up the golden stair,

Will they meet the mother’s half-way in the air?

Minnie Slade.

KISSES TO-DAY.

Banish, O maiden, thy fears of to-morrow;

Dash from thy cheek, love, the tear-drop of sorrow;

Pleasure flies swiftly and sweetly away:

Tears for to-morrow, but kisses to-day,—

Kisses, love.

Hear me, then, dearest, thy doubts gently chiding:

Know’st thou not true love is ever confiding?

Why snatch from Cupid his bandage away?

Love sees no morrow, then kiss me to-day.

Kiss me, love.

CONSECRATION.—A LOVER’S MOOD.

All the kisses that I have given,

I grudge from my soul to-day,

And of all I have ever taken,

I would wipe the thought away.

How I wish my lips had been hermits,

Held apart from kith and kin,

That fresh from God’s holy service

To Love’s they might enter in!

Miss Bates.

“UNDER THE ROSE.”

[A Platonic Kiss.]

You kissed me, as if roses slipped

Their rose-bud necklaces, and blew

Such breaths as never yet have dipped

The bee in fragrance over-shoe,

While rose-leaves of their color stripped

Themselves to make a blush for you.

Nor chide with such a cold constraint,

As if you laid the rose in snow;

For this the summer stores her paint,

The dappled twilights overflow

With motley colors, pied and quaint,

For kisses that in flowers do grow.

Nor pout and tease: you did not mean

So sweet a thing. Abide this test:

In open markets grades are seen

Of good and bad, in price expressed;

The buyer’s purse must choose between;

But when we give, we give the best.

Yet if that color, sweet as bees,

Of flower-flushes teases, see

How we can pluck such thorns as these,

That bleed in blushes, easily;

For, kiss me, sweet, just as you please,

I’ll take it as it pleases me.

Harney.

PLATONIC KISSES.

“What are they?” birdie, do you ask?

Your forehead wears a puckered line,

Oh! now you’ve found a dreadful task

Even for a learnèd head like mine.

Some questions are so hard! Ah, well,

If even Plato’s self were here,

The sage, I fancy, could not tell

The riddle that you ask me, dear.

My birdie, Plato was a sage,

The first to find he had a soul;

The life we live from youth to age,

His wisdom taught, was not the whole

And many theories Plato had

To rule the impulse of mankind,

Controlling all the base and bad

Through stern dominion of the mind.

And love, my birdie, Plato said,

Should be communion of the soul,

To glowing passion cold and dead,

And intellect should rule the whole.

Each soul another soul might find,

And spirit-intercourse reveal

A pure emotion of the mind,

Like that we think the angels feel.

But what Platonic kisses were

I doubt if Plato ever knew,—

Not like, my birdie, I infer,

The long, sweet kisses I give you,

And those you give me back again,

Repeated oft, and never done;

Not thus, I fancy, could it be

Platonic brides were ever won.

Philosophy, perhaps, had charms

To satisfy great Athens’ sage,

Indifferent to his lady’s arms,—

Two heads bent o’er one musty page.

But moderns, made of sterner stuff,

Would clothe it with a gentler light,

And, soul-communion not enough,

Both sense and spirit would unite.

Love’s sweetest charms they would not miss,

Nor into earthly passion fall,

So talk of a Platonic kiss,

And thus contrive to get it all.

But fondest theories, birdie sweet,

Oft bring a harvest of regret.

Now come and sit here at my feet.

Well, have you understood me, pet?

I thought not. What a pair of eyes!

I’ll have to send you back to school.

If Plato’s spirit could arise,

We’d tell the ghost he was a fool.

Now lift your sweet lips up to mine;

I like the language that they speak;

I know the rhetoric is not fine,—

What dreadful work they’d make of Greek!

Ah, how I love your little form!

And now—be sure you sit quite still—

Just hold my left hand, soft and warm;

Don’t shake the one that drives the quill.

Let Plato crown his love with bays,

I’ll make you mistress of my life.

I’ll love you, birdie, all my days,

And crown you with the name of wife.

HOW IT HAPPENED.

I pray you pardon me, Elsie,

And smile that frown away

That dims the light of your lovely face

As thunder clouds the day.

For on the spur of the instant,

Before I thought, ’twas done,

And those great gray eyes flashed bright and cold,

Like an icicle in the sun.

I was thinking of the summer

When we were boys and girls,

And wandering in the blossoming woods,

And the gay winds romped with your curls;

And you seemed to me the same little girl

I kissed in the elder-path.

I kissed the little girl’s lips, and, alas!

I have roused a woman’s wrath.

There is not much to pardon,

For why were your lips so red?

The blonde curls fell in a shower of gold

From the proud, provoking head,

And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyes

And played round the tender mouth

Rushed over my soul like a warm, sweet wind

That blows from the fragrant South.

And where, after all, is the harm done?

I believe we were made to be gay,

And all of youth not given to love

Is vainly squandered away,

And strewn through life-long labors,

Like gold in the desert sands,

Are love’s swift kisses and sighs and vows,

And the clasp of clinging hands.

And when you are old and lonely,

In memory’s magic shrine

You will see on your thin and wasting hands,

Like gems, those kisses of mine;

And when you muse at evening,

At the sound of some vanished name,

The ghost of my kisses shall touch your lips

And kindle your heart to flame.

John Hay.

IN AMBUSH.

Half hidden in the holly’s shade,

Dark with the weight of snow o’erlaid,

I see you plainly!

What plot are you two hatching now,

Lurking beneath the sheltering bough?

You’re hiding vainly!

But never mind—with eyes downcast,

I’ll let you think you have not passed

Before my vision.

“Let’s snowball him! ’twill be such fun!”

The words are whispered low by one,

In soft derision.

Ho! ho! so that’s your little plot!

You may be sure that I shall not

Attempt to foil it!

Besides, I can’t for very shame

Turn tail and run; and such a game,

’Twere sin to spoil it!

A warning shot,—it whizzes past!

Another,—fairly hit at last!

Nice warm work this is!

Well, fire away! Your stock runs low;

Reward must come at length, you know,—

Returns of kisses!

Bravo! I’ve caught you both at length!

In vain resist with all your strength,

And blushing faces!

Love’s toll, you know, ’s a warmer thing

Than making snowballs just to fling

From secret places!

A LONG-BRANCH EPISODE.

Upon the broad Atlantic sands

I saw a maiden and her lover,

Her dimpled fingers in his hands,

Her shy blue eyes the sea looked over;

With coy girl’s love to him she turned,

And said, “Dear,

Do you think that any one will know

That you have dared to kiss me so?”

Alone upon the pebbly strand

Break ocean swell and pale moonbeam;

The lovers are walking hand in hand

From the bluff to where the gas-lamps stream;

They reach the peopled colonnade:

Trembling, she said,

“Dear, I’m sure they all will know

That you have dared to kiss me so.”

The waltz floats through the casement low,

And the lovers stand at the open door;

The maid shyly whispers, “Will they know?”

Her eyes seem fastened to the floor:

Fond he looks down on the fair young face—

“All will see

That my arms are empty,” he said,

“And no kisses cling to your lips so red.”

They join the dancers’ merry whirl,

The room is filled with beauties fair;

With cheeks aflush and ruffled curl,

My maiden dances with absent air;

She fears that every one can tell.

Yet, I trow,

Only the lover and I could know

Which was the girl that had been kissed so.

THREE KISSES.

Three, only three, my darling,

Separate, solemn, slow;

Not like the swift and joyous ones

We used to know,

When we kissed because we loved each other,

Simply to taste love’s sweet,

And lavished our kisses as the summer

Lavishes heat;

But as they kiss whose hearts are wrung,

When hope and fear are spent,

And nothing is left to give, except

A sacrament!

First of the three, my darling,

Is sacred unto pain;

We have hurt each other often,

We shall again,—

When we pine because we miss each other,

And do not understand

How the written words are so much colder

Than eye and hand.

I kiss thee, dear, for all such pain

Which we may give or take;

Buried, forgiven before it comes,

For our love’s sake.

The second kiss, my darling,

Is full of joy’s sweet thrill;

We have blessed each other always,

We always will.

We shall reach until we feel each other,

Beyond all time and space;

We shall listen till we hear each other

In every place;

The earth is full of messengers

Which love sends to and fro;

I kiss thee, darling, for all joy

Which we shall know!

The last kiss, O my darling—

My love—I cannot see,

Through my tears, as I remember

What it may be.

We may die and never see each other,

Die with no time to give

Any sign that our hearts are faithful

To die, as live.

Token of what they will not see

Who see our parting breath,

This one last kiss, my darling, seals

The seal of death!

TOO OLD FOR KISSES.

My uncle Philip, hale old man,

Has children by the dozen;

Tom, Ned, and Jack, and Kate, and Ann—

How many call me “cousin”?

Good boys and girls, the best was Bess;

I bore her on my shoulder,

A little bit of loveliness

That never should grow older!

Her eyes had such a pleading way,

They seemed to say, “Don’t strike me;”

Then, growing bold, another day,

“I mean to make you like me.”

I liked my cousin, early, late;

Who likes not little misses?

She used to meet me at the gate,

Just old enough for kisses.

This was, I think, three years ago,—

Before I went to college;

I learned one thing there,—how to row,

A healthy sort of knowledge.

When I was plucked (we won the race),

And all was at an end there,

I thought of Uncle Philip’s place,

And every country friend there.

My cousin met me at the gate;

She looked five, ten years older,—

A tall young woman, still, sedate,

With manners coyer, colder.

She gave her hand with stately pride:

“Why, what a greeting this is!

You used to kiss me.” She replied,

“I am too old for kisses.”

I loved, I love my cousin Bess;

She’s always in my mind now,—

A full-blown bud of loveliness,

The rose of womankind now:

She must have suitors; old and young

Must bow their heads before her;

Vows must be made, and songs be sung,

By many a mad adorer!

But I must win her; she must give

To me her youth and beauty;

And I—to love her while I live

Will be my happy duty;

For she will love me soon or late,

And be my bliss of blisses,

Will come to meet me at the gate,

Nor be too old for kisses!

WEDDING SONG.

[Polonaise.]

Three suitors were with me to-day;

They proffered love and treasure.

The lordly one gave pleasant words,

And many ells of ribbon;

The second, plain of face and form,

He counted coin and jewels;

The third presented roses three,

And coupled them with kisses.

The first I fancied, and would greet

Him warmly, as a brother;

The second, gladly him I’d choose

To be my nearest neighbor;

But, oh, the third, of rosy gifts,

Who stifled me with kisses,—

I’d give to him these longing eyes,

And all that life possesses.

THE KISS AT THE DOOR.

When I took my leave last night,

Nellie—she could do no more—

Softly brought a candle-light

Just to show me to the door.

How it was I cannot tell,

When I felt her hand in mine,

Something said, “Why not as well

Press her pretty lips to thine?”

Then I clasped one hand quite tight,—

T’other held the light, you know,—

So that Nellie, helpless quite,

Felt she couldn’t say me “No.”

But she gave a little scream,

That did ne’er the bliss deny;

And—too brief the happy dream—

In went she, and out went I.

A KISS.

A kiss! oh, ’tis a magic spell

That wildly thrills the breast,

And bids it with emotion swell

When lip to lip is pressed;

’Tis friendship’s breath, affection’s seal,

And, though a transient bliss,

The proudest, coldest heart must feel

The rapture of a kiss.

A kiss! yes, ’tis a dear delight,

Whose memory often cheers,

And sheds through clouds a radiance bright,

In scenes of after-years.

When sorrows o’er the bosom roll,

Who hath not felt a bliss

Spread swiftly through the glowing soul

Beneath a magic kiss?

FIVE TWICES.

“Papa, the bell’s a-ringin’

For church—an’ mus’ you go?

And I was been a-bringin’

Your boots an’ fings for you.

And that’s all I’m a-good for,

Jus’ cos’ to love you some,

And here’s my bestest hood, for

To meet you comin’ home.

“Now jus’ I want you kiss me

Afore you goes away,

’Cause maybe you might miss me—

Bein’ to church all day.

Now I’m ‘your little mices,’

To creep up on your knee;

’F you’ll kiss me all five twices,

Why—then—I’ll—let you be.”[12]

So climbs “my little mices”

Up on my willing knees,

And takes her full “five twices”

As oft as doth her please;

The while that I am drinking

Kiss-cups of purest bliss,

And, dreamy-joyous, thinking,

Was ever love like this?

Yet, mid my fond caressing,

I mind the time of old

When little ones, for blessing,

The Christ-arms did enfold.

And so I tell the story

Unto my little maid,—

How our Good Lord of Glory,

While here with us he stayed,

Would take the little children

Up on his friendly knee,

The while his kindness filled them

With fearless, gentle glee.

Then, soft and sweetly laying

His dear hand on their head,

They knew that he was praying,—

They heard the prayer he said!

And so, her blue eyes deeping,

Upon her head I lay

My hand, while, moved to weeping,

Unto the Lord I say,

“O loving, gracious Father,

Bless this dear babe, I pray,

And with thy people gather

My child, at that great day.”

Bathed in a holy beauty,

The little maid slips down,

And I to “higher duty”

The chiming summons own.

But childhood’s quaint devices

Once more must needs appear:

“Did he kiss ’em all five twices?”

Is the last word I hear!

Nutting.

NURSERY RHYMES.

What is to me the sweetest thing

That the morning light can bring?

It is this,—

My mother’s kiss.

And, if gentle watch she’ll keep,

What gives me the sweetest sleep?

Only this,—

My mother’s kiss.

Nothing else so dear can be,

Nothing brings such joy to me,

As does this,—

My mother’s kiss.

Then, if I’m a pleasant child,

Kind, obedient, and mild,

I’ll have this,—

My mother’s kiss.