What do I want with your little, shrinking love?
See, I have a star in my hand, that I snatched from the blue above,
I have the moon under my arm; and dreams in my heart that cry—
And, look, the glow of my city, my home—like blood-red fire in the sky!
You cannot bind me with cords, while you give or withhold little kisses,
I will fly off and forget....
Ah!
II
How can you tell? you say. Your heart cries “wait”:
You will not answer now, “it grows so late”—