Had I but tasted her virgin youth,
the quiver of eager flesh, unwary,
the tremor of breath, as unsettled,
the gaze of her eyes, needing form;
would she have shed unwanted tears,
as easily submitted as tho’ exhaling,
to offer her last pang of cold sorrow,
and thus shared, have mine as warm.
But, alas, forsaken, she came to me,
thus, shed of tears, tho’ not her own,
and her eyes had already found gaze,
not of mine, but of sky, in her dismay;
Yet, sensitive edges of her remained,
as I embraced her to my waiting heart,
and ‘ere she took hold of that moment,
then offered a change of warm my way.