To the uttermost reaches of self;
Forgetting the petty conventions of men,
And the scramble for power and pelf.
I want to sail out to the Island-of-Love,
And couch myself there on your breast,
To be soothed by your passionate viol-sweet voice,
And lulled by its music to rest.
I want to be warmed by the sun of your smile,
Refreshed by the rain of your tears,
Content in the clasp of your compassing arms,
As we drift down the tide of the years.
I want to float out on the ebb-tide of life,
As mutely the death watch you keep,
And feel the quick pulse of your quivering lips
As I fall in the last dreamless sleep.