Plot-Culture

Not with my Soul, Love! bid no Soul like mine

Lap thee around nor leave the poor Sense room!

Soul, travel-worn, toil- weary, would confine

Along with Soul, Soul's gains from glow and gloom,

Captures from soarings high and divings deep.

Spoil-laden Soul, how should such memories sleep?

Take Sense, too let me love entire and whole

Not with my Soul!

Eyes shall meet eyes and find no eyes between,

Lips feed on lips, no other lips to fear!

No past, no future so thine arms but screen

The present from surprise! not there, 'tis here

Not then, 'tis now: back, memories that intrude!

Make, Love, the universe our solitude,

And, over all the rest, oblivion roll

Sense quenching Soul!