Classic Poem

Oh we are close indeed,
Yet do not touch;
Our bodies have no need
For even so much
As the most delicate caress of finger-tips
To be aware that our souls' lips
Are pressing each on each,—
Yet not too wildly one for murmured speech.

With bodies yet aloof we feel the spark
Of the swift current leap from hand to hand
Without a touch, and make the other understand.
From spirit's arc it leaps to spirit's arc,
More potent, far, than the mere lust
Of dust for carnal dust.
For we are of the blesséd few
Who thrive on heaven's dole,—
Strong, vivid bodies drenched with soul,
Even as with mountain dew
Is drenched the fleece of many a dawn-flushed ewe.

And now as we draw nearer
So that this warm hand lingers
Lightly upon your sweet smooth fingers,
My vision of the very you grows clearer,
More human, dearer.
With reverent surprise,
Through spirit-quickened eyes,
I read the page of you
As if my hand, divorced from my own will,
Impelled by some unearthly thrill,
Were setting down the music of your soul
Upon a dim, ethereal scroll
Unseen by mortals hitherto.