by Percy Bysshe Shelley
To thirst and find no fill-to wail and wander
With short unsteady steps-to pause and ponder--
To feel the blood run through the veins and tingle
Where busy thought and blind sensation mingle;
To nurse the image of unfelt caresses
Till dim imagination just possesses
The half-created shadow, then all the night
Sick...
Last updated January 14, 2019