CAN it, indeed, be Love which stirs My eager heart Each time we meet, Which makes so brief, so fleet Those hours before we part: Which, after parting, thus be-spells My soul and dwells Unceasingly With ageing, lonely me: Which fills me with strange fears Lest some event— Perverse—postpone, prevent Fulfilment of that next, glad rendezvous It is my constant hope to keep with You? Can it, my dear, be Love, indeed, Which I thus feel Each time we part? Which brings such sorrowful smart, Which robs me of all weal When You are absent from my sight, Destroys delight Implacably? Which makes Life seem to be Naught but the measure of Need? Is it Love, I ask, Which bids me bask Day-long within Your aura ... half the night Dream of our next encounter with delight? Can it be Love? Ah, No. Not @3Love!@1 Sense does not thrill, Nor passion burn, Nor am'rous heat return In him high on Life's Hill: Whose blood runs slow, who seeks Peace, and who ekes Exiguous days, Walks cruel, sad, harsh ways. ... That which, to-day, I prove, Which heart, soul, mind In You, dear, find, Is royal respite from Life's wretchedness... Outlet for long-inhibited tenderness. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SEVEN TWILIGHTS: 1 by CONRAD AIKEN DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 4. THE LOTTERY GIRL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: IMANUEL EHRENHARDT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE AWAKENING by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |