I dreamt of future days with her—
Of days that would not be.
I dreamt of days I was too sure
She would accept most eagerly.

I could almost feel her gentle touch—
Almost taste her supple skin.
I almost thought she gave me such
Pleasure—as to be sin.

Then she turning, left my sight—
Left with an ironic grin.
And I burning, cursed my plight—
Cursed my cowardice within.

— Basil Chalmondeley