Sore Longing

My body is athirst for thee, my love:
My lips, that may not meet thy lips again,
Are flowers that fail in drought for want of rain;
My heart, without thy voice, is like a grove
Wherein no bird makes music, while above
The twilight deepens as the low winds wane;
My eyes, that ache for sight of thee in vain,
Are hidden streams no stars make mirrors of.

I see thee but in memory, alas!
So some worn seaman, restless in his sleep.
In time of danger, o'er the raging deep
Sees visionary lights, and cries, " We pass
The prayed-for land; reverse the helm, put back!"
Yet still the ship bears on her starless track.