The Lost Thrill

I grow so weary, someway, of all thing That love and loving have vouchsafed to me, Since now all dreamed-of sweets of ecstasy Am I possessed of: The caress that clings-- The lips that mix with mine with murmurings No language may interpret, and the free, Unfettered brood of kisses, hungrily Feasting in swarms on honeyed blossomings Of passion's fullest flower--For yet I miss The essence that alone makes love divine-- The subtle flavoring no tang of this Weak wine of melody may here define:-- A something found and lost in the first kiss A lover ever poured through lips of mine.