Poem by Mathilde Blind

Song (I am athirst, but not for wine)

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.

1. Internal Firesides
2. Apple-Gathering
3. The Red Sunsets, 1883 (The twilight heavens are flushed with gathering light)
4. The Songs of Summer
5. What Magic Is There

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