Thus I, Mary MacLane, so conscious of Me and garbledly gifted, want a Thousand Kisses at eleven o'clock of a still evening.
No spirit-hands of Love are laid soft on my drooping shoulders in the passing days: no Love—no Love—in all my life.
No miracle Wonder and Gentleness stirs in and against my Heart: my Heart is strangely dead of a strange Realness, known and felt but unachieved:—no Love—no Love in my life.
And I can wish for no Love, for the listless Heart is listlessly dead.
I wish instead, in hastening present clock-ticking moments, for a Thousand present-warmed Kisses: a Thousand in Wanton response to a Wanton 'leven-o'clock.
Dominating waving washing warmth of Wantonness, compassing me at eleven o'clock.
A Thousand careless insouciant Kisses: a Thousand gorgeous delicate Kisses: a round Thousand.
From what lips—whose lips—what do I know?—: so their Kisses are a Thousand.
From what lips—what do I care?—: so they be eager and live and tenderly false.
—come some of the Thousand glowing on my pink lips, and my white fingers, which were tense, relax—
—come more of the Thousand, and my rigid hard-riding
