Indolence

There is a special kind of indolence
That only comes after love;
Then we feel its sweet essence.
Though in the cry of the dove,

And in the bed when in the morning
We lie still half in dreams,
It seems we have a faint warning
Of what it is, it only seems.

The true flavor of this bliss
Comes only after love.
Lips still lazily form a kiss
On the skin that lies curled above,

And down as if like snow
From the sky lightly they slip,
They venture new ground to know,
From leg unto the hip,

But they are not under the will;
Just as likely the head
Will fall, and rest, and lie still
In the sweet confines of bed.

I give the name of 'indolence' 
To this bliss after love,
Because it is a rest of innocence.
All the things it is not of,

Anger and hurt and heart's tears,
Are banished far away.
As one rains kisses on the ears,
One's lips can only say

The words in the tongue of love
That was spoken long ago,
Before violence was sought to prove
What all women know;

When, in the morning of time,
Two lovers damply curled,
Could romance themselves in rhyme,
And think themselves the world.