Not Heat Flames Up And Consumes, Not Sea-Waves Hurry In And Out, Not The Air, Delicious And Dry, The Air Of The Ripe Summer, Bears Lightly Along White Down-Balls Of Myriads Of Seeds, Wafted, Sailing Gracefully, To Drop Where They May; Not These - O None Of These, More Than The Flames Of Me, Consuming, Burning For His Love Whom I Love! O None, More Than I, Hurrying In And Out: Does The Tide Hurry, Seeking Something, And Never Give Up? O I The Same; O Nor Down-Balls, Nor Perfumes, Nor The High, Rain-Emitting Clouds, Are Borne Through The Open Air, Any More Than My Soul Is Borne Through The Open Air, Wafted In All Directions, O Love, For Friendship, For You.