Part 32 (1/2)

She casts her veil away, and stands up arrayed in some tight-fitting stuff wound closely round the legs and hips.

”I have put off my coat; How shall I put it on?

I have washed my feet: How shall I defile them?

My well-beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door, And my bowels were moved for him.

I rose up to open to my beloved, And my hands dropped with myrrh, And my fingers with sweet-smelling myrrh, Upon the handles of the lock.

Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth:

She throws her head back and half closes her eyelids.

”Slay me, comfort me, For I am sick of love.

Let his left hand be under my head And his right hand embrace me.

Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, with one of thine eyes, With one chain of thy neck.

How fair is thy love!

How fair are thy caresses!

How much better than wine!

The smell of thee pleaseth me more than all spices.

Thy lips drop as the honeycomb: Honey and milk are under thy tongue.

The smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon.

”A garden enclosed is my sister, A spring shut up, a fountain sealed.

”Awake, O north wind!

Blow, thou south!

Blow upon my garden, That the spices thereof may flow out.”

She rounds her arms, and holds out her mouth.

”Let my beloved come into his garden And eat of his pleasant fruits.

Yes, I come into my garden, O! my sister, my spouse, I gather my myrrh with my spice, I eat my honeycomb with my honey.

I drink my wine with my milk.

SET ME A SEAL UPON THINE HEART AS A SEAL UPON THINE ARM FOR LOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH” [1]

Without moving her feet, without bending her tightly-pressed knees, she slowly turns her body upon her motionless hips. Her face and her two b.r.e.a.s.t.s, above her tightly-swathed legs, seem three great pink flowers in a flower-holder made of stuffs.

She dances gravely, with her shoulders and her head and the intermingling of her beautiful arms. She seems to suffer in her sheath and to reveal ever and ever more the whiteness of her half imprisoned body. Her breathing inflates her breast. Her mouth cannot close. Her eyelids cannot open. A heightening flame flushes her cheeks.

Now her ten interlocked fingers join before her face. Now she raises her arms. She strains voluptuously. A long fugitive groove separates her shoulders as they rise and fall. Finally, with a single movement of her body, enveloping her panting visage in her hair as with a bridal veil, she tremblingly unfastens the sculptured clasp which retained her garment about her loins, and allows all the mystery of her grace to slip down upon the ground.

Demetrios and Chrysis . . .

Their first embracement before love is immediately so perfect, so harmonious, that they keep it immobile, in order fully to know its multiple voluptuousness. One of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s stands out erect and round, from under the strong encircling arm of Demetrios. One of her burning thighs is rivetted between his two legs, and the other lies with all its heavy weight thrown upon them. They remain thus, motionless, clasped together but not penetrated, in the rising exaltation of an inflexible desire which they are loath to satisfy. At first, they catch at one another with their mouths alone. They intoxicate each other with the contact of their aching and ungated virginities.