NOT that you must pluck your heart and press
It, like a scented flower, within the pages
Of a letter. I need and ask much less,
Beloved, than this; nor say all messages
You write be traced in passion's burning blood
Upon the living parchment of your flesh;
Nor that words must fall, as kisses would,
Upon my eager mouth, as sweet and fresh,
As if, in truth, I felt your lips on mine.
I surely ask no more of love than you;
Nor seek beyond that intimacy words define
Or touch, if my soul only knew
Some dearer language whereby love might better
Speak . . . within the pages of a letter.