University of Virginia Library

NOT heat flames up and consumes,
Not sea-waves hurry in and out,
Not the air, delicious and dry, the air of the ripe
     summer, bears lightly along white down-balls of
     myriads of seeds, wafted, sailing gracefully, to
     drop where they may,
Not these—O none of these, more than the flames
     of me, consuming, burning for his love whom I
     love!
O none, more than I, hurrying in and out;
Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never
     give up? O I the same;
O nor down-balls, nor perfumes, nor the high
     rain-emitting clouds, are borne-through the open
     air,
Any more than my Soul is borne through the open
     air,
Wafted in all directions, O love, for friendship, for
     you.