With the love that kills and the thought that slays.
Ahi, Yasmini, thy youth it slays!
The youthful widow, with shaven hair,
Whose senses ache for the love of a man,
The young Priest, knowing that women are fair,
Who stems his longing as best he can,
These suffer not as I suffer for Thee;
For the Soul desires what the senses crave,
There will never be pleasure or peace for me,
Since He who wounded, alone could save.