O World, I Cannot Hold Thee Close

Now The Autumn Shudders In The Rose's Root. Far And Wide The Ladders Lean Among The Fruit. Now The Autumn Clambers Up The Trellised Frame, And The Rose Remembers The Dust From Which It Came. Brighter Than The Blossom On The Rose's Bough Sits The Wizened Orange, Bitter Berry Now; Beauty Never Slumbers; All Is In Her Name; But The Rose Remembers The Dust From Which It Came.

I, Being Born A Woman And Distressed By All The Needs And Notions Of My Kind, Am Urged By Your Propinquity To Find Your Person Fair, And Feel A Certain Zest To Bear Your Body's Weight Upon My Breast; So Subtly Is The Fume Of Life Designed, To Clarify The Pulse And Cloud The Mind, And Leave Me Once Again Undone, Possessed. Think Not For This, However, The Poor Treason Of My Stout Blood Against My Staggering Brain, I Shall Remember You With Love, Or Season My Scorn With Pity, - Let Me Make It Plain: I Find This Frenzy Insufficient Reason For Conversation When We Meet Again.

Ah, Drink Again This River That Is The Taker-away Of Pain, And The Giver-back Of Beauty! In These Cool Waves What Can Be Lost?-- Only The Sorry Cost Of The Lovely Thing, Ah, Never The Thing Itself! The Level Flood That Laves The Hot Brow And The Stiff Shoulder Is At Our Temples Now. Gone Is The Fever, But Not Into The River; Melted The Frozen Pride, But The Tranquil Tide Runs Never The Warmer For This, Never The Colder. Immerse The Dream. Drench The Kiss. Dip The Song In The Stream.

This Have I Known Always: Love Is No More Than The Wide Blossom Which The Wind Assails, Than The Great Tide That Treads The Shifting Shore, Strewing Fresh Wreckage Gathered In The Gales; Pity Me That The Heart Is Slow To Learn, That The Swift Mind Beholds At Every Turn.

Life Goes On Forever Like The Gnawing Of A Mouse.