To sleep upon my breast, and dead before
The sweet custom of love could be between us!
To have but seen his face?--Is that enough
To make me clear he is my man indeed?
Why, sure there are tales bordering on my lot
In misery?--Of hearts who have been stabbed
By knowledge that their mates were in the earth,
Yet never could come near enough to be healed;
Of those who have gone longing all a life,
Because a voice heard singing or a gesture
Seen from afar gospell'd them of love;
And no more than the mere announcement had.
Ah, but all these to mine were kindly dealing;
For not till they'd trepann'd him out of life
Did he, poor laggard, come to claim my soul.--
O my love, but your ears played you falsely
When they were taken by Death's wily tunes!

* * * * *

Am I so hardly done to, who have seen
My lover's face, been near enough to worship
The very writing of his spirit in flesh?
For having that in my ken, I am not far
From loving with my eyes all his body.
What a set would his shoulders have, and neck,
To bear his goodly-purposed head; what gait
And usage of his limbs!--Ah, do you smile?
Why, even so I knew your smile would be,
Just such an over-brimming of your soul.