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The Lost Thrill
I grow so weary, someway, of all things
That love and loving have vouchsafed to me,
Since now all dreamed-of sweets of ecstasy
Am I possessed of: The caress that clings-
The lips that mix with mine with murmurings
No language may interpret, and the free,
Unfettered brood of kisses, hungrily
Feasting in swarms on honeyed blossomings
Of passion's fullest flower-For yet I miss
The essence that alone makes love divine-
The subtle flavoring no tang of this
Weak wine of melody may here define:-
A something found and lost in the first kiss
A lover ever poured through lips of mine.
James Whitcomb Riley
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