The Humour’s Sip

Photograph by HORIZON (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0).

The dew drops from the heavens, delicate
Woven like water painting destiny
Across the sky; but I am desolate,
Still starved, thirsting for drunken harmony.

Oh, long have I been kept the taste of wine
From knowing, long delirious for want,
And starving, darkened, I cannot divine
Why I have seen but flickers, but a taunt.

Thou leavest what is thine for me; but thine own
Real presence thou still cloudest from my tongue,
A honeycomb whose sweetness to be known
Has mocked my craving to be brought round young.

How art thou in me, yet I have thee not?
O one and only, art thou in my flesh,
My spirit in thine? If my heart forgot
His life, ’tis thou wilt open it afresh.


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