I lie upon my couch by night,
And dream, and dream--
Until the quavering shadow-light
Her portraiture doth seem--
Until the breeze's moaning saith
In limpid-lapping stream,
The same denial she answereth.
I lie upon my couch by night,
And yearn, and yearn--
Until the flickering breeze's flight
Bring kisses that would burn--
Until my soul could moan with pain--
Oh, wherefore should she spurn
My love again, and yet again?
I toss upon my couch by night;
I yearn; I yearn--
Until I see the glimmering light
Upon the east return--
Until with passion-pulsing breath,
I pray my lady stern:
"Oh, let me win thee, sweetest Death--"
_December 27, 1912._