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It cannot be my spirit, |
For that was thine before; |
I ceded all of dust I knew, -- |
What opulence the more |
Had I, a humble maiden, |
Whose farthest of degree |
Was that she might, |
Some distant heaven, |
Dwell timidly with thee! |
VI. |
If you were coming in the fall, |
I'd brush the summer by |
With half a smile and half a spurn, |
As housewives do a fly. |
If I could see you in a year, |
I'd wind the months in balls, |
And put them each in separate drawers, |
Until their time befalls. |
If only centuries delayed, |
I'd count them on my hand, |
Subtracting till my fingers dropped |
Into Van Diemen's land. |
If certain, when this life was out, |
That yours and mine should be, |
I'd toss it yonder like a rind, |
And taste eternity. |
But now, all ignorant of the length |
Of time's uncertain wing, |
It goads me, like the goblin bee, |
That will not state its sting. |
VII. |
WITH A FLOWER. |
I hide myself within my flower, |
That wearing on your breast, |
You, unsuspecting, wear me too -- |
And angels know the rest. |
I hide myself within my flower, |
That, fading from your vase, |
You, unsuspecting, feel for me |
Almost a loneliness. |
VIII. |
PROOF. |
That I did always love, |
I bring thee proof: |
That till I loved |
I did not love enough. |
That I shall love alway, |
I offer thee |
That love is life, |
And life hath immortality. |
This, dost thou doubt, sweet? |
Then have I |
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