Smother me amongst thine bosom plenty:
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Let me know not the touch of else but thine,
Nor touch untender, nor a scent but thine.
Thus, drought of ale shalt not find me thirsty
Nor any lack of lamb enhunger me,
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For thine own pale white skin shalt nourish mine,
And from between thine lips, not gin, nor wine,
But drink which soothes yet tastes as warm'd honey
Shalt give itself forth in empassion'd flow,
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And thus I give forth prayer unto God.
Mine deepest wish is for thine flesh, behind
The mean-wide wave, that I might see, and know,
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And feel: yet on His Earth which once we trod
Or else in Heaven, let thine soul mine bind.