Oh, that my blood were water, thou athirst, And thou and I in some far Desert land, How would I shed it gladly, if but first It touched thy lips, before it reached the sand. Once,—Ah, the Gods were good to me,—I threw Myself upon a poison snake, that crept Where my Beloved—a lesser love we knew Than this which now consumes me wholly—slept. But thou; Alas, what can I do for thee? By Fate, and thine own beauty, set above The need of all or any aid from me, Too high for service, as too far for love.
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