THE LOVER WAITS
And she and I alone there. . . . Now I'll dream
That some great rose has died, and that its soul
Goes by me on the night—goes by to God,
Who has all beauty in His gift, and gave
More to my Sweet than to the flowers she loves!
'T is true she thinks me mad, nor yet believes
What chains mine eyes have fashioned for my heart,
Deeming that it should fathom first her own
And find what's there: I scorn so cautious love!
Better delusion than a heart that plots,
And chaffers first with Love to find the cost:
I'll fence with Death, but Love shall have me blind.
Yet 't is as well that woman's breast should house
The inherited Misgiving. Still for her
Love is too oft a sexton at the last. . . .
Thank God there is no moon to make me ghosts
Among the blossoms of the orchard-trees!
For I've my dead—few, but a sleepless lot.
'T is only woman living makes one wait
And question all one's stars. Ye trees, there's that
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