She lived, we'll say,
A harmless life, she called a
virtuous life,
A quiet life, which was not life at all
(But that she had not lived enough to know)
And wilt thou have me fashion into speech
The love I bear thee, finding words enough,
And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,
Between our faces, to cast light on each? -
I dropt it at thy feet. I cannot teach
My hand to hold my spirits so far off
From myself--me--that I should bring thee proof
In words, of love hid in me out of reach.
Nay, let the silence of my womanhood
Commend my woman-love to thy belief, -
Seeing that I stand unwon, however wooed,
And rend the garment of my life, in brief,
By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude,
Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief.
Men could not part us with their worldly jars,
Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend;
Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars,--
And, heaven being rolled between us at the end,
We should but vow the faster for the stars.
The soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,
And placed it by thee on a golden throne,
-- And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)
Is by thee only, whom I love alone.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes.
Unlike we are, unlike, O princely Heart!
Unlike our uses and our destinies...
Thou, bethink thee, art
A guest for queens to social pageantries,
With gages from a hundred brighter eyes
Than tears even can make mine...
What hast though to do
With looking from the lattice-lights at me,
A poor, tired, wandering singer...
The face of all the world is changed, I think,
Since first I heard the footsteps of they soul
Move still, oh, still, beside me...
Say over again, and yet once over again,
That thou dost love me...-toll
The silver iterance!
I think of thee!-my thoughts do twine and bud
About thee, as wild vines, about a tree...
Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood
I will not have my thoughts instead of thee
Who art dearer, better!
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