Palm throbbing palm, you hush all useless words, And thought meets thought, in silent love. And now and then, you leave the cheek, to kiss The coral lips; yet not with transient touch, But with a fervid, lingering pressure there, As if you longed to force the lips apart, And drink the soul; while both her melting orbs Are drooped beneath your burning inch-near eyes. The parting hour must come. The good-night said, You rise to leave; and turning, at the door, You see her head drooped on the sofa’s arm, You fancy she is sighing that you’re gone; And stealing back on tiptoe, gently raise The beauteous face, and take it ’twixt your palms; And gazing on the features radiant, Distorted queerly by your pressing hands, You feel that life, the parting cannot bear, That you must stay forever there, or die! Another effort, one more nectar sip, You rush from out the room, and slam the door, Just on the steps, you meet your rival’s face. He has an easy confidence, and walks Into the house, as if it were his own. Poor fellow! how you really pity him! You can afford to be magnanimous, And deprecate his certain, cruel fate. You murmur: “Well, he brings it on himself,” And turn to go. The window’s near the ground, And slightly raised. Although you know it’s mean, You cannot now resist, but creep up near, And with a finger part the curtain’s fringe. You see your darling run across the room With both extended hands, and hear her say: “Oh Fred! I am so very glad you’ve come, I feared that stupid thing would never leave, I had to let him take my hand awhile, And mumble over it, to get him off.” You grasp the iron railing for support, And, faint and dizzy with the agony Of love’s departure, cling till all has fled; Then stagger home without a trace of love. Yet only Self is touched; her beauty’s there, Her sparkling wit, and her intelligence, Her manner even, towards you, has not changed, And, were you with her, she would be the same. Love’s every motive disappeared with Self, No pride of conquest, no romance of thought; You meet no sympathy, but ridicule! A mother’s love may last through injury, Because it reaps the self’s reward of praise For constancy, through wrong. The lover’s flame. Unless supplied with fuel-self, dies out, For, burning, ’twould deserve supreme contempt.