There's not a fibre in my trembling frame <br />That does not vibrate when thy step draws near, <br />There's not a pulse that throbs not when I hear <br />Thy voice, thy breathing, nay thy very name. <br />When thou art with me every sense seems dim, <br />And all I am, or know, or feel is thee; <br />My soul grows faint, my veins run liquid flame, <br />And my bewildered spirit seems to swim <br />In eddying whirls of passion, dizzily. <br /> <br />When thou art gone, there creeps into my heart <br />A cold and bitter consciousness of pain: <br />The light, the warmth of life with thee depart, <br />And I sit dreaming over and over again <br />Thy greeting clasp, thy parting look and tone; <br />And suddenly I wake--and am alone.<br /><br />Frances Anne Kemble<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-love-557/
