Sensory Interlude

Is it the perfume of your veins’ deep flow,
Or the whisper-kiss from the dear one’s glow?
Sense—
Whence comes the dusk-born moth to flutter nigh?

Is it bloom’s welcome to vernal embrace,
Or the past unfolding with gentle grace?
Hear intently—
Whence springs the breath of dawn, the day’s soft sigh?