Strange words were those from Poet lips (said he);
  And then he paused and sighed, and turned to look
Upon the lady’s downcast eyes, and see
  How fast the honey-bees in settling shook
Those apple blossoms on her from the tree: 
  He watched her busy lingers as they took
And slipped the knotted thread, and thought how much
He would have given that hand to hold—­to touch.

At length, as suddenly become aware
  Of this long pause, she lifted up her face,
And he withdrew his eyes—­she looked so fair
  And cold, he thought, in her unconscious grace. 
“Ah! little dreams she of the restless care,”
  He thought, “that makes my heart to throb apace: 
Though we this morning part, the knowledge sends
No thrill to her calm pulse—­we are but FRIENDS.”

Ah! turret clock (he thought), I would thy hand
  Were hid behind yon towering maple-trees! 
Ah! tell-tale shadow, but one moment stand—­
  Dark shadow—­fast advancing to my knees;
Ah! foolish heart (he thought), that vainly planned
  By feigning gladness to arrive at ease;
Ah! painful hour, yet pain to think it ends;
I must remember that we are but friends.

And while the knotted thread moved to and fro,
  In sweet regretful tones that lady said: 
“It seemeth that the fame you would forego
  The Poet whom you tell of coveted;
But I would fain, methinks, his story know. 
  And was he loved?” said she, “or was he wed? 
And had he friends?” “One friend, perhaps,” said he,
“But for the rest, I pray you let it be.”

Ah! little bird (he thought), most patient bird,
  Breasting thy speckled eggs the long day through,
By so much as my reason is preferred
  Above thine instinct, I my work would do
Better than thou dost thine.  Thou hast not stirred
  This hour thy wing.  Ah! russet bird, I sue
For a like patience to wear through these hours—­
Bird on thy nest among the apple-flowers.

I will not speak—­I will not speak to thee,
  My star! and soon to be my lost, lost star. 
The sweetest, first, that ever shone on me,
  So high above me and beyond so far;
I can forego thee, but not bear to see
  My love, like rising mist, thy lustre mar: 
That were a base return for thy sweet light. 
Shine, though I never more-shall see that thou art bright.

Never!  ’Tis certain that no hope is—­none! 
  No hope for me, and yet for thee no fear. 
The hardest part of my hard task is done;
  Thy calm assures me that I am not dear;
Though far and fast the rapid moments run,
  Thy bosom heaveth not, thine eyes are clear;
Silent, perhaps a little sad at heart
She is.  I am her friend, and I depart.

Silent she had been, but she raised her face;
  “And will you end,” said she, “this half-told tale?”
“Yes, it were best,” he answered her.  “The place
  Where I left off was where he felt to fail
His courage, Madam, through the fancy base
  That they who love, endure, or work, may rail
And cease—­if all their love, the works they wrought,
And their endurance, men have set at nought.”