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.