Page:Poems Rice.djvu/159

It brings no joy, but yet we sometimes dream
 What might have been; ah! this is useless, vain;
We only catch of blissful hours a gleam,
 And thus we live and hope for them again.
How can we always, always mock, disguise
 The holiest springs, and bid them cease to flow;
How seal the founts of sympathy that rise,—
 Tell me, Beloved, for this I wish to know.

Twelve months, I said, had passed since first we met;
 Dost thou not know 'tis near as many years!
The place, the time, I never could forget;
 Dream-like this lapse so long to-night appears:
It was electric, though a passing glance,
 Which from my memory never passed away,
A revelation, though we met by chance,
 Haunting my dreams by night, and, too, by day.

And when you questioned me a year ago,
 With such a sad, with such a thrilling look
Where we had met—lest that my tears might flow,
 An explanation I ne'er dared to brook;
It seemed so sacred, aye, a theme so pure,
 That angels only should the record keep;
And heavenward me it tended to allure,
 This fount of love so fathomless, so deep.

And now, Beloved, what power have I to make
 A simple vow, with which my heart is filled?
Yet fervently I would with thee partake
 Of all the joys the world has yet distilled;