Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.
The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care
How lucious lies the pea within the pod.
Longing, it may be, is the gift no other gift supplies.
MY river runs to thee: Blue sea, wilt welcome me? My river waits reply. Oh sea, look graciously! I ’ll fetch thee brooks From spotted nooks,— Say, sea, Take me!
THE soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her. Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, -- Her visitor no more.