Give Me Your Lips
Clark Ashton SmithGive me your lips: Like to some scarlet fruit of Paradise That grew before the gates were barred, They burn upon my eyes; Or like to scarlet flowers, Wherefrom a sweet and subtle poison drips; Or crimson jewels, cold and hard, That kissed of my desire, Shall magically melt to wine and fire To wine beyond the wine of earthly hours To fire More than the fire of heavens many-starred. Give me your lips: When you have laid your vermeil mouth on mine, No draught, no anodyne, Nor comb wherefrom the amber honey drips; No marsh drunk beneath the desert skies, Nor all the green and bitter wine of seas; No dews of Lethe nor of Paradise Not one, nor all of these, Shall take away the taste of fire and wine Your lips have left on mine.
The first half is pure accumulation — each comparison more intense than the last. Fruit from Paradise before the gates were barred: something prelapsarian, existing before the Fall made beauty dangerous. Then the second half flips entirely — instead of piling up comparisons for the lips, it piles up everything that cannot undo them. No drug, no honey, no wine, no sea, no waters of Lethe can wash away the taste left behind. The kiss has become permanent. Wine and fire keep returning like a refrain — wine is warmth and dissolution, fire is consumption.