THE FOND LOVER
I am but little in your sight,
A passing thought, a fleeting light
That gone, forgotten lies.
The humble pastime, that you chose
To honour, as you might a rose,
O'er which you cast your eyes.
Were I some simple, lifeless thing,
A book you read, an oft-worn ring,
A favourite flower you wear,
I might be close to you and know
The rapture and the living glow
Of lips, and breast, and hair.
But as it is, the earth you press,
The clinging texture of your dress,
The jewel on your hand
Know more of Heaven and joys therein
Than I, whose soul has never been
Where it could understand.