The trouble with wanting is I want you

but you are a mystery

beyond my comprehending,

summons of sweet-scented blooms

the bumblebee may never see nor taste.

Blindly I follow after crumbs

thoughtless cast upon the ground before me

poor proxies they are

for that in which my soul takes delights-

and so I blunder on,

and hope one day to spy

the humblest vision of that beyond knowing

to which my heart holds fast.