Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/126

 I have no hope to whisper,

I have no prayer to send,

God save you from such passion!

God help you from such end!

You first, you last, you false love!

In dreams your lips I kiss,

And thus I greet your Shadow,

"Take this, and this, and this!"

When dews are on the casement,

And winds are in the pine,

I have you close beside me—

In sleep your mouth is mine.

I never see you elsewhere;

You never think of me;

But fired with fever for you

Content I am to be.

You will not turn, my Darling,

Nor answer when I call;

But yours are soul and body

And love of mine and all!

You splendid Spaniard! Listen—

My passion leaps to flame

For neck and cheek and dimple,

And cunning shades of shame!

I tell you, I would gladly

Give Hell myself to keep,

To cling to, half a moment,

The lips I taste in sleep.

He crouches, and buries his face on his knees,

And hides in the dark of his hair;

For he cannot look up to the storm-smitten trees,

Or think of the loneliness there—

Of the loss and the loneliness there.