THE BETROTHAL.
There is none anywhere
So beautiful as she nor half so dear;
My heart sings ever when she draweth near,
Because she is so good and sweet and fair.
I may not be the one
To break the cloistered stillness of her life,
To teach her passion and love and grief and strife,
And lead her through the garden of the sun.
For I am sad and wise;
I have no hopes, no dreams, no fancies—none;
Yet she has taught me that I am alone,
And what men mean who talk of Paradise.
But, when her joybells ring,
I think, perhaps, that I shall hear and sigh
And wish the roses did not have to die,
And that the birds might never cease to sing.