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.