Of very living. Yet I’d fain appear
Th’ unhurried gourmet, tasting of my wine,
Lingering o’er memories of the purpled vine,
Loath for each passing moment. Ah, my dear,
Now like a careless child, I toss the hours
Over my shoulder, I forget the sun,
The dewy dawn, the white moon and the flowers.
Like a tired pilgrim with his goal in view,
Looking not right nor left, I run, I run
To that bright day of days that brings me you.