Reach out your arms, and hold me close and fast,
Tell me you have no memories of your past
That mar this love of ours, so great, so vast.
Some truths are cheapened when too oft averred–
Does not the deed speak louder than the word?
(Dear Christ! that old dream woke again and stirred.)
As you love me, you never loved before?
Though oft you say it–say it yet once more;
My heart is jealous of those days of yore.
Sweet wife, dear comrade, mother of my child,
My life is yours, by memory undefiled.
(It stirs again, that passion brief and wild.)
You never knew such happy hours as this,
We two alone, our hearts surcharged with bliss,
Nor other kisses sweet as my own kiss?
I was the thirsty field, long parched with drouth,
You were the warm rain blowing from the South.
(But oh! the crimson madness of her mouth.)
You would not, if you could, go down life’s track
For just one little moment, and bring back
Some vanished raptures that you miss or lack?
I am content. You are my life, my all.
(One burning hour, but one, could I recall.
God! how men lie, when driven to the wall!)