I have a thought; I would extract and polish it
tenderly, almost every moment,
and adorn it with new smiles and
pains and shocks, and turn it
this way and that; there lurked within
a curious torment,
a thrilling ache that comes with
desire, that I would press at with
wonder.
My mind is wearied of it now, like a slackened drum.
Yet, it beats
me unceasingly,
returns the thought to me
with refined severity,
a glaring brightness,
so all other thoughts turn blind
and vanish.
It rests heavy upon me,
and churns and grinds,
As it binds my freedom.
This one thought of you that I loved. Please, in mercy,
go.
