Surrendering to Impulse

He bows, assuredly, as good men do;
And plucks me violets; then we both proceed
Through undergrowth; through all that muddy stew;
It has a viscous thickness; but won't feed
Our appetites, as we close to our edge;
Such promontories, cliffs and other heights:
We find this view soon steals our minds; we pledge
Our escape from glib dullness; we seek nights,
Where every stepped-on twig has some import;
Where we discern rivers beneath the moon,
Some shrug their shoulders, but there is such sport
To be had in veiled darkness; there I'll swoon
And surrender to impulses - true bliss
Enraptures as we fuck and our lips kiss.