Insatiate

What though she lieth mute on yonder hill? Though ivy green and shadowy eglatere Have held in tender fold through many a year Her quiet grave, I fear her—fear her still. He loved her once. Ay, though he hold me fast And sear my lips with kisses burning-sweet, No touch of mine can make his life replete For man's first love is oftentimes his last. A still face glimmers through my dreams for aye. E'en when I strain him close with feverish grasp Wan grave-cold fingers loose the clinging clasp, And grave-cold lips my fervid kisses stay. She lives incarnate in each flower fair, Her eyes illume the violets in my hand, The golden-rod that lights the Autumn land Seems but the scattered star-dust of her hair. Love's perfect flower may never bloom for me— For me his wife. For ah! I fear her still Who lies forever mute on yonder hill. He loved her once. Would God that I were she!