Reeled and swooned like a drunken man foolish with wine;
And I thought ’twere delicious to die there, if death
Would come while my lips were yet moist with your breath;
’Twere delicious to die, if my heart might grow cold
While your arms wrapped me round in that passionate fold,
And these are the questions I ask day and night:
Must my lips taste but once such exquisite delight?
Would you care if your breast was my shelter as then,
And if you were here would you kiss me again?
Josephine Hunt (Chicago Tribune.)