a hunger fed by stolen hours
When Sabbath bells or feast days bid thee stay,
And household claims enchain thy gentle hand,
I chide no more the hours that steal thee away,
Nor curse the vows I cannot countermand.
For though the world may mark thee as not mine,
And duty bind thee fast to others’ side,
I feast upon each stolen, fleeting sign
Of love that dares, though cloaked, to yet abide.
I live upon those shores where once we walked,
Where salt wind kissed the secrets on our lips;
On cricket greens where idle laughter talked,
And country inns that blessed our brief eclipses.
Thus love and lust in equal fire I prove:
Hopeless I burn, yet gladly starve for love.
— Adam Donaldson Powell
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