By Claude McKay

To clasp you now and feel your head close-pressed, 

Scented and warm against my beating breast; 

To whisper soft and quivering your name, 

And drink the passion burning in your frame; 

To lie at full length, taut, with cheek to cheek, 

And tease your mouth with kisses till you speak 

Love words, mad words, dream words, sweet senseless words, 

Melodious like notes of mating birds; 

To hear you ask if I shall love always, 

And myself answer: Till the end of days; 

To feel your easeful sigh of happiness 

When on your trembling lips I murmur: Yes; 

It is so sweet. We know it is not true.

What matters it? The night must shed her dew. 

We know it is not true, but it is sweet— 

The poem with this music is complete.


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