A woman’s love is like religion.
To clasp her hips is to fold hands in prayer,
To part her lips is to part the sea,
Under her arches you enter a chapel,
And upon her back are angel’s wings.
Her eyes dark wine like her blood,
Her skin the purity of the lotus tree;
Moving her heart is like moving a mountain,
And catching her heart is as improbable as catching three.
You bathe in her bliss like the Jordan,
You bow before her before she bows to thee,
And when you think she has forgotten you,
She returns and takes thy hand,
And reveals she never left the land—but
Was always there, when you thought her heart could never be.
The Exhilarations Of A Woman’s Love
You see the softly woven wonder of her hands;
Lips forbidden pink that makes one stare.
The gallop in her hair, and the grace in her canter bring
springs to your steps—Ah! often such foolish springs.
The mystic air about her body flits about your head;
Like breathing cherry toxic fumes,
That make your senses dilate and churn.
A rise of her delicate brow can bring a flush
—Or a grin
And when presenting her with a rose, you may
begin to question if you had been looking at roses the wrong way.
Then you start looking, and stranger yet you become just as fond
of them as she.
Oh! what exhilarations a woman’s love can bring!