This Malady

What cure is there to treat this malady -

that since we met, all things seems tinged with grey;

that hunger flies to mountains far away,

and restful sleep no longer visits me?

That since we met - the joys that used to be,

the lights that shone into my waking day,

and filled my dreams with their celestial ray -

now seem vague shadows of my memory?

Only in you is there a cure; to wake,

and watch you sleeping in my arms, and never

to see the morning round the curtains steal;

to look in your eyes, let nothing break

this spell that treats my sickness, and forever

only the rhythm of your breath to feel.

Author's Note

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