Beloved, I sometimes wish that you had died
And passed into the calm of a green grave,
Where I could tend your spirit, a glad slave
Of perfect memories; and throughout the wide
Mist-clouded future I could rest beside
Your moss-embowered image, dreaming of when
In some far land our souls might meet again
Cast Heavenward by death's befriending tide!
But you are living, and you tread the same
Deflowered earth as I, although our ways
Are sundered, and I cannot even claim
Sufficient tears to call back those glad days
When first your love into my lone heart came,
And when your lips first fondly spoke my name!