Rest may be found ’neath any arching tree.
No sleep allures, no draughts of love deliver
My spirit from its aching need of thee.
Thy sweet assentiveness to my demands,
All the caressive touches of thy hands,—
These soft cool hands, with fingers tipped with fire,—
They can do nothing to assuage desire.
Sometimes I think my longing soul remembers
A previous love to which it aims and strives,
As if this fire of ours were but the embers