Sit here where I could touch your hand If that should be my sudden will:
Among the shadows where we wait
I shall not stir.
Sit here where I could feel your lips If they should breathe the faintest sound:
As the slow-moving midnight slips
I ask no speech.
Sit here where I could lay my head Wearily down upon your knees:
I shall sit upright as I watch
The tangled fire.
Back to Arthur Davison Ficke
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