Nay, but I wrong thee, dear one, thinking so. 
My boy, my love, my poet!  Nay, I know
Thy lonely room, tomb-like to thee as mine,
Tomb-like as tomb of some returning ghost
Seems only bright about my lily-flower. 
And, mayhap, while I wrong thee thus in thought
Thou bendest o’er it, feigning for some ease
Of parted ache conceits of poet-wit
On petal and on stamen—­let me try! 
If lilies be alike thine is as this,
I wonder if thy reading tallies too.

Six petals with a dewdrop in their heart,
Six pure brave years, an ivory cup of tears;
Six pearly-pillared stamens golden-crowned
Growing from out the dewdrop, and a seventh
Soaring alone trilobed and mystic green;
Six pearl-bright years aflower with gold of joy,
Sprung from the heart of those brave tear-fed years: 
But what that seventh single stamen is
My little wit must leave for thee to tell.

But neither poet nor a sibyl thou! 
What brave conceit had he, my poet, built;
No jugglery of numbers that mean nought,
That can mean nought for ever, unto us.

XV

REGRET

One asked of regret,
  And I made reply: 
To have held the bird,
  And let it fly;
To have seen the star
  For a moment nigh,
And lost it
  Through a slothful eye;
To have plucked the flower
  And cast it by;
To have one only hope—­
  To die.

XVI

LOVE AFAR

Love, art thou lonely to-day? 
  Lost love that I never see,
Love that, come noon or come night,
  Comes never to me;
Love that I used to meet
  In the hidden past, in the land
Of forbidden sweet.

Love! do you never miss
The old light in the days? 
Does a hand
Come and touch thee at whiles
Like the wand of old smiles,
Like the breath of old bliss? 
Or hast thou forgot,
And is all as if not?

What was it we swore? 
    ’Evermore! 
    I and Thou,’
Ah, but Fate held the pen
    And wrote N
    Just before: 
    So that now,
See, it stands,
Our seals and our hands,
    ’I and Thou,
    Nevermore!’

We said ‘It is best!’
And then, dear, I went
And returned not again. 
Forgive that I stir,
Like a breath in thy hair,
The old pain,
’Twas unmeant. 
I will strive, I will wrest
Iron peace—­it is best.

But, O for thy hand
  Just to hold for a space,
For a moment to stand
  In the light of thy face;
Translate Then to Now,
To hear ‘Is it Thou?’
    And reply
    ‘It is I!’
Then, then I could rest,
Ah, then I could wait
    Long and late.

XVII

Canst thou be true across so many miles,
  So many days that keep us still apart? 
Ah, canst thou live upon remembered smiles,
  And ask no warmer comfort for thy heart?