My limbs are kindled for an older girl

Whose radiance, whose presence, ever gleaming,

My rolled-up passion beseeches to unfurl

And through my eager veins is ever streaming.

She walks in grace and sprightliness beteeming

But meets not once the envoys of my eyes,

And though she knows full well of my esteeming,

Silences not my effervescing cries

And never tries.  A note of hers denies

My righteousness of dignity and blame:

“I love you,” writes her gentle hand.  But sighs

Return.  The reader she means has not my name.

I let her letter flutter to the floor,

Deciding now to think of her no more.