DEAR, dearest, Why do the arms of me yearn? Dear, dearest, Why do the lips of me burn? I, who have trained my mind in an austere school, Why do I quiver because your brow is cool? I, who have vowed that Minerva alone is fair, Why is my world ablaze at the touch of your hair? I, who have scorned things sensuous under my feet, Why do I freeze and burn if your lips are sweet? I, who know I must be as steel, and forget— Why does the soul in me faint when your eyes are wet? Dear, dearest, Would I be ashen and old? Dear, dearest, Could I be distant and cold? |