Flower, that I hold in my hand,
Waxen and white and unwoful,
Perfect with your race’s lovely perfection,
Pure as the dream of a child just descended from the heavens,
Chaste as the thought of the maid on whose sight first shines the glow of love’s planet,
...

Three steps and I reach the door,
  But a whole month rolls between
Since last I stood before
  My shut room’s simple scene.

I pause at the door and shrink,
  My hand is at point to turn,
But I stand and dimly think
  Of all I long for...