The thick scents of evening, the attar of the rose,
Should take away my weariness both drowsily and close.
You would come on tiptoe, like the whisper of birds’ wings,
With a quite small music and some occupying things,
And draw up close a cushion, and bend a cautious ear,
And say “Now don’t disturb him—for he’s tired, poor dear!”
And then, both handfast, we would dream long days,
Till the dry world shimmered to a sleepy, happy haze.
With no cares to speak of—no silly fools to fret—
Oh my great, proud longing that I’ll never, never get!