Page:Ephemera, Greek prose poems (IA ephemeragreek00buckrich).pdf/19



I sit before my window drawing the gleaming threads from the distaff—and I wait. Yet even when I see him I am silent, clasping my longing hands over my knees to still their trembling.

Tossing the boyish curls away from his brow, bright-eyed and lovely, how can I hope that he should think of me? How dare I hope that he, so beautiful, should stoop to love?

His voice thrills in my heart; his accidental touch flashes like fire through my veins. And then my veiling lashes droop, I bite my lips and lay sweet, cooling flowers against my cheeks.

When he looks at me and smiles, I fear him. Yet some day, perhaps, he will hold me in his arms and then—then I will only love him and be very happy.