Dearth

I hold your trembling hand to-night-- and yet I may not know what wealth of bliss is mine, My heart is such a curious design Of trust and jealousy! Your eyes are wet-- So must I think they jewel some regret--, And lo, the loving arms that round me twine Cling only as the tendrils of a vine Whose fruit has long been gathered: I forget, While crimson clusters of your kisses press Their wine out on my lips, my royal fair Of rapture, since blind fancy needs must guess They once poured out their sweetness otherwhere, With fuller flavoring of happiness Than e'en your broken sobs may now declare.