First time he kissed me, he but only kissed <br />The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; <br />And ever since, it grew more clean and white, <br />Slow to world-greetings, quick with its ' Oh, list,' <br />When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst <br />I could not wear here, plainer to my sight, <br />Than that first kiss. The second passed in height <br />The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, <br />Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed ! <br />That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown, <br />With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. <br />The third upon my lips was folded down <br />In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed, <br />I have been proud and said, ' My love, my own.'<br /><br />Elizabeth Barrett Browning<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxxviii-3/
