Love In Exile (8)

Poetry by Mathilde Blind

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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.
 

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