Had I been true to my deep loneliness,
Nor sought a lesser love to soothe my grief,
Had I been willing not to find relief,
But so to live, companioned by distress,
I, sometimes, to my inner soul confess
The fierce and inarticulate belief
That such despair forever held in fief
Could heal my spirit better than caress.
I have done nothing wrong — I only take
A human love that longed to lift my woe,
I only give a tender sympathy,
And yet — ah! yet, I sometimes long to wake
Alone, to taste again the bitter throe
Of loveless and unsolaced misery.