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VIII.
- I AM athirst, but not for wine;
- The drink I long for is divine,
- Poured only from your eyes in mine.
- I hunger, but the bread I want,
- Of which my blood and brain are scant,
- Is your sweet speech, for which I pant.
- I am a‐cold, and lagging lame,
- Life creeps along my languid frame;
- Your love would fan it into flame.
- Heaven’s in that little word—your love!
- It makes my heart coo like a dove,
- My tears fall as I think thereof.
