Is but the eve of darkness falls
ever silent in flitting sleep.
Where ravens walk the edge of light.
Where dim the shadows quietly die.

Is but the grieve in found recall
where loves and lives do then return.
Where once was felt and touched so light
as flickering fires of candles burn.

And once the heart is touched by voice
and graze of tips of fingers trace.
A vision comes, not chosen choice
to wind the stem of rose’s vase.

And if the stem does swiftly break
upon the tug of lover’s grasp.
A need shall rise of thirst to slake
before the hands are joined in clasp.

For of the sweetness of the dew
a tongue shall taste and yearn of more.
When sheets are torn and thrown askew
beyond the cloak of lover’s door.