Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire;
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever,
Still would we kiss and kiss for ever;
E'en though the numbers did exceed [ii]
The yellow harvest's countless seed;
To part would be a vain endeavour:
Could I desist?--ah! never--never.
November 16, 1806.
[Footnote 1: From a note in Byron's copy of Catullus (now in the
possession of Mr. Murray), it is evident that these lines are based on
Carm. xlviii., 'Mellitos oculos tuos, Juventi'.]
[Footnote i: 'To Anna'. [4to] ]
[Footnote ii: 'E'en though the number'. [4to. 'Three first Editions'.]]
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