Iii

Though she hath touched hot lips to mine and wept, From out the hell of her wild soul, fierce tears, Each little look love kept Of her disdain, unknowingly, these years, And word of scorn, is crier at mine ears To wake the hate that slept.-- She asks me now for water that shall cherish, When hot sands choke my life’s dry fountainhead: For love, that stirs not though her love should perish Where mine lies dead.