FERVOUR
If I swing my treads and shape withdraw,
As I crush the burdened afternoon lanes,
If I trade settled steps for a playful flaw,
And slowly drift with the uncertain rains,
Would I own view of bare seraphic eyes,
Whose glimpse fair recollections convey?
I wonder longing oft at the stifling skies,
Whether we'd meet just one mile away;
“But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.”
— Robert Frost