Page:Stars of the Desert.djvu/61

 In our most daring prayers, is flung to us By our time honoured custom's strange decree, One perfect hour of radiant romance Is lent to us; will it be lent to me?

Rarely men understand our way of love; How that to women in their wedding hours Lover and priest and king are blent in one, Hence the awed worship of these hearts of ours.

At times love for a little lifts the veil And men and women see each other's heart, But swiftly passion comes, obscuring all, And thus the nearing souls are swept apart.

To us love is a sacred rite; to men Custom, perhaps affection, or desire. Before we hold our lovers in our arms They are too fiercely amorous to inquire.

And after too indifferent; thus our souls Remain an unread chapter to the end, And those whose very life is blent with ours Cannot be called with justice even friend.

Ah me, I dream and dream: my basket lies Unfilled beside me, while the aspens part Their trembling leaves, and show the castle walls That rest my eyes and draw my anxious heart,

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