love...never gets old...losing it doesn't either. dwelling on Stephen Crane

[Ah, God, the way your little finger moved]
Stephen Crane

Ah, God, the way your little finger moved
As you thrust a bare arm backward
And made play with your hair
And a comb a silly gilt comb
Ah, God—that I should suffer
Because of the way a little finger moved.

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I heard thee laugh
Stephen Crane

I heard thee laugh

And in this merriment
I defined the measure of my pain;
I knew that I was alone,
Alone with love,
Poor shivering love,
And he, little sprite,
Came to watch with me,
And at midnight
We were like two creatures by a dead camp-fire.