tête–à–tête

Her breath smells wine

her eyes are gold

she wears a silken robe.

She smiles so sweet

her teeth, so white

she promises delight.

Awed am I and cannot speak

of her coming, I never asked

she says, "The horse shall come at dusk."

Then I hold her pallid hands

And breathe into her ears,

"Not now nor tomorrow, I still have many years."

"Why not stay for a while my lady,

the night is dreadful than the dead

worry no more, let's drink some tea instead."