The heat is like some drowsy drug
Laden with honey-foundered dreams. . . .
Again the pagan forest seems
To couch and roof our pagan love,

Alone I wait . . . but not alone:
For something of you lingers yet,
Something returns, and subtly tells
Of all the beauty made our own.

Across the days that intervene
I breathe the fragrance of your hair,
One with the pine-embalsamed air:
Its warm oblivion covers me.

Again some gently murmured word
Lights the great fire in my blood . . .
Till rapture like a singing sun
Is in the riven spirit stirred.

And leaning thirstily and fain
On earth and air that burn with drouth,
I find again your pagan mouth—
Half-palpable, like dreams that fade.