|Next to Last Lines|
|AT 4:30 A.M.|
Do not think that I
Am too importunate!
To be away from you
Is for me a daily sort of dying.
And so I'm on the rocky edge,
Near death for forty days and nights,
Starved of your being
And thirsting for your beauty;
And though I know that you will wait,
A time could easily come
In the agony of separation
When this frail and yearning spirit,
Too passionate, too sensitive,
For the obstructions of space
And the cruelties of time,
Gives up the ghost to rest forever—
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