thinking of you
what an impatient disease;
I run round myself in circles
feeling faint, and needing breeze.
you are the coming rose
that grows with summer's infinity
deep and rich soil,
so there my heart goes
you have disturbed me with a serene illness
one which no pride in vanity meets
i have flown ages since and it is our souls to impress.
i seek no withdrawl
i could continue the winding-veins throb--
it is my heart that to yours does call
and no match for me,
I simply sit by the hedge
waiting, and gazing
as I walk the lover's ledge.