FERVOUR If I swing my treads and shape withdraw, As I crush the burdened afternoon lanes, If I trade settled steps for a playful flaw, And slowly drift with the uncertain rains, Would I own view of bare seraphic eyes, Whose glimpse fair recollections convey? I wonder longing oft at the stifling skies, Whether we'd meet just one mile away; “But the flower leaned aside And thought of naught to say, And morning found the breeze A hundred miles away.” — Robert Frost
