Deem Not My Love Is Only For The Bloom, The Honey And The Marble, That Is You; Tis So, Belov'D, Common Loves Consume Their Treasury, And Vanish Like The Dew. Nay, But My Love'S A Thing That's Far More True; For Little Loves A Little Hour Hath Room, But Not For Us Their Brief And Trivial Doom, In A Far Richer Soil Our Loving Grew, From Deeper Wells Of Being It Upsprings; Nor Shall The Wildest Kiss That Makes One Mouth, Draining All Nectar From The Flowered World, Slake Its Divine Unfathomable Drouth; And, When Your Wings Against My Heart Lie Furled, With What A Tenderness It Dreams And Sings!