Imitated From Catullus: To Ellen

Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would quench desire: Still would I steep my lips in bliss, And dwell an age on every kiss; Nor then my soul should sated be, Still would I kiss and cling to thee: Nought should my kiss from thine dissever; Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever, E’en though the numbers did exceed The yellow harvest’s countless seed. To part would be a vain endeavor: Could I desist? ah! never never!