Setting-in daily from me towards her should, impotent wholly,
Bring neither sound nor motion to that sweet shore they heave to?
Efflux here, and there no stir nor pulse of influx!
Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her!
Surely, surely, when sleepless I lie in the mountain lamenting,
Surely, surely, she hears in her dreams a voice, ‘I am with thee,’
Saying, ‘although not with thee; behold, for we mated our spirits
Then, when we stood in the chamber, and knew not the words we were saying;’
Yea, if she felt me within her, when not with one finger I touched her
Surely she knows it, and feels it while sorrowing here in the moorland.