TO ONE.
I love thee, and my trembling lyre
Will learn no other strain;
I marvel if thy gentle heart
Will ever cease disdain;
I marvel if our future lives,
Will mingle into one,
And glitter like a happy stream,
In an unclouded sun.
I see that mid a wooing throng,
Thou art a central star,
And vying youths, with noble pride,
Have brought their gifts from far:
I only think the smiles thou giv'st,
So freely unto them,
If given to me, would bless me more,
Than thrones or diadem.
I love thee, and this throbbing heart,
From thrall no longer free,
Must heave in joy, or ache with wo,
Till Death's dark hour, for thee.
I feel that I must know thy love,
Or all of life will be
One long, deep wail, one throb of pain,
One speechless agony.