It was not passion,
It was a vague tenderness...
That which sickly children inhale,
Those delerious times and those pale nights.
The lone spirit
On being touched sings:
When love agitates it powerfully
It quivers, it meditates, it withdraws and is silent.
Passion had it been
In truth; these pages
At another time more happily written,
Would not have verses but tears.