III.

I am athirst, but not for wine; The drink I long for is divine, Poured only from your eyes in mine.

I hunger, but the bread I want, Of which my blood and brain are scant, Is your sweet speech, for which I pant.

I am a-cold, and lagging lame, Life creeps along my languid frame; Your love would fan it into flame.

Heaven's in that little word—your love! It makes my heart coo like a dove, My tears fall as I think thereof.