I am athirst, but not for wine; 
The drink I long for is divine, 
Poured only from your eyes in mine. 

I hunger, but the bread I want, 
Of which my blood and brain are scant, 
Is your sweet speech, for which I pant. 

I am a-cold, and lagging lame, 
Life creeps along my languid frame; 
Your love would fan it into flame. 

Heaven's in that little word--your love! 
It makes my heart coo like a dove, 
My tears fall as I think thereof.