Exile
By: Hart Crane
My hands have not touched pleasure since your hands, —
No, — nor my lips freed laughter since “farewell,”
And with the day, distance again expands
Voiceless between us, as an uncoiled shell.
Yet, love endures, though starving and alone.
A dove’s wings clung about my heart each night
With surging gentleness, and the blue stone
Set in the tryst-ring has but worn more bright.