For I have sent my soul away.

I am the man who cannot love,
Yet once my heart was bright as thine,
The suns that rove, the moons that move,
No longer make its chambers shine;
No more they light the spirit face
That lit my night and made my day;
No maiden feet with mine keep pace
For I have sent my soul away.

O, lost! I think I see thee stand,
By Mary's ivied chapel door,
Where once thou stood'st, and with thy hand
Wring pious pain, as once before.
Impatient, crude philosopher,
I scorned thy gentle wisdom's ray.
All vain thy moistened eyelids were;
I sent my soul and thee away.

A causeless wrath, a mood of pride,
Some tears of thine, and all was done;
On alien plains I travelled wide
And thou wert soon a veiléd nun.
Not long a veiléd nun, but soon
Unveiled of linen and of clay;
But I am March while thou art June,
For I have sent my soul away.

And now when I would love thee well,