And think of all that that plain even now stands for:
"Such life here, through such lengths of hours,
Such miracles performed in play,
Such primal naked forms of flowers,
Such letting nature have her way
While heaven looks from its towers!"
They love one another: why cannot they be like that plain, why cannot they "let nature have her way"? Does she understand?
"How say you? Let us, O my dove,
Let us be unashamed of soul,
As earth lies bare to heaven above!
How is it under our control
To love or not to love?"
But always they stop short of one another. That is the dread mystery:
"I would that you were all to me,
You that are just so much, no more.
Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!
Where does the fault lie? What the core
O' the wound, since wound must be?"
He longs to yield his will, his whole being—to see with her eyes, set his heart beating by hers, drink his fill from her soul; make her part his—be her. . . .
"No. I yearn upward, touch you close,
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,
Catch your soul's warmth—I pluck the rose
And love it more than tongue can speak—
Then the good minute goes."
Goes—with such swiftness! Already he is "far out of it." And shall this never be different?