Your hair gives a perfume somewhere between
Nectar and autumn spice, and floats in locks
That curl between my hands; and when you lean
On me, the music's steady rhythm mocks
My heart. We step smoothly on cue, but it
Is racing past the orchestra, and I
Wonder how two people can so well fit
Together-hand in hand and thigh to thigh--
But keep it to a waltz. Though this is passion:
To see fulfillment coming, and hold back,
Moving so much as music gives the ration
Of pleasure, till abundance fills the lack.
Yet I can hold you only for so long
As I am held in rapture by the song.
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