Must we meet thus in a cloistered hour
Like estranged lovers of charred hearts,
Mine yet spilling words so tender 
And Thine armed with cold silence.

Fire isn’t fire when it eschews heat
To become a mere shadow ardour,
Love isn’t love when alone it dwells
As a lamp in the void doth appear.

Dither not long to me made perishable,
A lay flower in a wildgrass’ shade
That shall at hour’s bell wither and fall,
And my little passion in dust will end.

From these last clutch of hours I send
This missive to Thee O Immortal Beloved.