Letter

Dear Love,
Dost thou not realise that thy doing
Is that doing of the fluttering heart
Which raises that delirious desire
To feed my life?
It is the nightmare in the dream:

 

To talk of slumber even as dreams
Invade my repose, while the cold love
Fuels the fiery burning of Life?
It is all thy high-handed doing
To raise that razing desire
That attacks the rational heart…

 

Wilt thou even take my words to heart?
Each plea, each tear in night’s deep dream
Is another source of my desire;
A desire to be loved, and also to love—
That desire will become my undoing,
To burn at the frenzied stake of Life

 

The hunger and thirst. This life,
Only to this life I offer up my heart,
Where I perhaps know what I am doing,
To dream of loves, and love to dream
Of silver, crystalline-dark stars; love
To expound on this every desire

 

—Perhaps ’tis lust? Thy desire
Entangles me: my life
Cries out to thee, O my darling Love,
That thou may lift this burdening heart
To spare the frightful dream
Of sweet delirium’s doing.

 

This twisted soul of Lust’s own doing
Kindles the fires of desire.
But is it only for me to dream
About, this magical cloud of Life
That brings to a wanting child the love
To fulfil, to complete his yearning heart?

 

It is all just as a dream: but ’tis Life,
Shall I plead thee remove my desire for her heart?
’Tis after all, the doing of the ache for Love.

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