My soul to startled sighs was roused alone
When Edith cross’d my vision. Then my mood,
As gloom would gather round again, would grieve
To think, in sorting souls, fate bungled so,
And let our traits be judged of by our trades,—
The dusty imprint of the things we touch.
“As well,” cried I, “to judge of winds of heaven,
By bogs they brush, or fogs they bear away!
We two that so could trust each other’s hearts,
Why should we not join hearts, and leave to them