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Hark ye, lad fleet interlacings of the limbs lithe swayings coyings flutterings! lip! heart! hip! all graze: unceasing touch and go! not taste, observe ye, else come satiety. Eh, Pagan? Ah! low veiled, high palmed Tahiti! I still rest me on thy mat, but the soft soil has slid! I saw thee woven in the wood, my mat! green the first day I brought ye thence; now worn and wilted quite.
There's naught so sweet on earth heaven may not match it! as those swift glances of warm, wild bosoms in the dance, when the over-arboring arms hide such ripe, bursting grapes. Tell me not of it! Hark ye, lad fleet interlacings of the limbs lithe swayings coyings flutterings! lip! heart! hip! all graze: unceasing touch and go! not taste, observe ye, else come satiety. Eh, Pagan?
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