Lie still, my love, and do not speak, because
In silence is fulfilling of these laws;
Fastidious sorcery lives not in speech.
Let each devoutly take the hand of each,
But lightly, and without the emphasis
Of pressure, or persuasion of a kiss.

Breathe now with breath diminished to the least;
Narrow your eyelids to entreat the beast;
Make soft your glances; never show surprise
Discovering the lion in his eyes —
The little lion like a burning bush —

Approaching languidly, with bush and bush
Sighed from the padding velvet, see him crouch
And spurn the carpet for the painted couch,
Like a gilt feather on its pillows tossed.

Lie still, my love, lie still, or all is lost.
From violence of lust remote, withdrawn,
He shudders delicately to a yawn,
And with their pulses in a mute accord
Lies down between these lovers like a sword.