My thirst is as the thirst of light
On gardens long foredrained of dew:
A longing goes from me to you
Not all your sweetness shall requite,
And all my blood is wind-blown fire. . . .
Ah, in the desert of desire,
The fleeting fountains of delight!
Long hopeless, long forlorn of peace,
My lips are burning with your name,
Your kisses fall like flame on flame
And in your flesh is no release:
Ever I hear, in heart and vein,
The tumult of a surging main,
The unturning tides that never cease.
Far off, for others, slumber lies
A valley-land of leaf and bloom
The still, unfallen stars illume:
My sleep is made of flaring skies
And meads where running flame has been,
Where ashen blossoms crumble, in
A sere and blasted paradise.
Somewhere, on rose and rosemary,
On lotus red and lotus wan,
Distill the dews of Acheron:
Not yet, not yet, for you and me
To find the placid fields of death
And spend our sighs upon the breath
Of poppies of Persephone.
My thirst is as the thirst of light
On gardens long foredrained of dew:
A longing goes from me to you
Not all your sweetness shall requite
And all my blood is wind-blown fire.
Ah, in the desert of desire
The fleeting fountains of delight!