The Lost Thrill

I grow so weary, someway, of all

That love and loving have vouchsafed to me,

Since now all dreamed-of sweets of

Am I possessed of:

The caress that clings—The lips that mix with mine with

No language may interpret, and the free,

Unfettered brood of kisses,

Feasting in swarms on honeyed

Of passion's fullest flower—For yet I

The essence that alone makes love divine—The subtle flavoring no tang of this Weak wine of melody may here define:—A something found and lost in the first kissA lover ever poured through lips of mine.