The Lost Thrill

I grow so weary, someway, of all things That love and loving have vouchsafed to me, Since now all dreamed-of sweets of ecstasy Am I possessed of: The caress that clings— The lips that mix with mine with murmurings No language may interpret, and the free, Unfettered brood of kisses, hungrily Feasting in swarms on honeyed blossomings Of passion's fullest flower—For yet I miss The essence that alone makes love divine— The subtle flavoring no tang of this Weak wine of melody may here define:— A something found and lost in the first kiss A lover ever poured through lips of mine.