Is this all; the bursting heart, the soul
Unlocked and plundered, the mind divided and spent
In passion; and the languid dust of beauty
Drifting downward from the hand which held
It hungrily but just an hour ago?
Is this the core and depth of love, this thing
Our flesh has ached to find . . . this pinch of dross
Which now remains, like dregs within the wine?
Or do we hold our hearts too loosely cupped
To catch the finer grains of gold that pass
Between our lips unfelt-to quench a deeper thirst?