“Love’s Rite of Passage”

    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.


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