Alice Ormond Campbell

MEN call me Longing; and I come to you

To lure and taunt you in the graying dawn

Or breathless even, when, the sun withdrawn,

The shallow moon hangs empty in the blue.

Chill spring is mine, when eager winds pursue

The tree-boughs traced with chary fringe of tawn,

And trenchant blades fresh-pierce the russet lawn,—

Mute questions asked, despaired, and asked anew.

I am that hunger which all mad Youth is,

Fretful and faint, with fever-burning eye;

Its thin arms, dread with sweet concavities,

Reached out to wisps that beckon and deny—

Strange unresolving chords, and ironies

That stir, excite, yet never satisfy.