Insatiate

What though she lieth mute on yonder hill?

Though ivy green and shadowy eglatere

Have held in tender fold through many a year

Her quiet grave, I fear her — fear her still.

He loved her once. Ay, though he hold me fast

And sear my lips with kisses burning-sweet,

No touch of mine can make his life replete

For man's first love is oftentimes his last.

A still face glimmers through my dreams for aye.

E'en when I strain him close with feverish grasp

Wan grave-cold fingers loose the clinging clasp,

And grave-cold lips my fervid kisses stay.

She lives incarnate in each flower fair,

Her eyes illume the violets in my hand,

The golden-rod that lights the Autumn land

Seems but the scattered star-dust of her hair.

Love's perfect flower may never bloom for me —

For me his wife. For ah! I fear her still

Who lies forever mute on yonder hill.

He loved her once. Would God that I were she!