Aduska, who has long hair on her arms,
And a face, intricate and fine,
Has vindicated the poet in me,
But I cannot write a line.
I want to love Aduska,
To kiss the soul in her face,
To kiss sweet Aduska in a sweet and hidden place.
I want to love Aduska, but things interfere—
Things which have nothing to do with love, but are here!
I want to love Aduska, but she’s gone to other things—
Love willingly waits; and when love is waiting, sings,
Or waits without a sound—
If that’s what Aduska wants—
As I sometimes found.
