Classic Poem

When a woman is wanted,
What is the printed page, that I can idle over it,
And what the street, that I can wander it through?

The kiss in imagination is but whiskey ...
It makes the thirst rage ...
The dream of caresses and whispering love is but a beckoner forth from the prison-cell ...

I want, not an image, but flesh and blood,
Not words in a book, but words that come living from human lips,
Not an exquisite description, but a raw sight actual and near ...
Not an aching armful of air, but a crowded armful of resisting and surrendering woman ...
Lips that my own can be pressed against in strong kisses,
Hair to fall down on my shoulders and tease me with its odour of sun-warmed pine-needles,
Eyes that can light and dim, fluctuating to the words and glances I send her ...
Oh, one here, now, close to me, mine, as I hers.

How can I conjure you up from the millions in this city?
Somewhere you sit, dreaming, and empty, and sad ...
Oh, how many thousands like myself brood in their lonely rooms and wish?
Girls and youths parted by narrow walls?
And who shall go seeking and who shall be found to-night?