I have not touched her robe, and still
She is more dear than lyric words
And music; or than strains that fill
The throbbing throats of forest birds.
Of all we mean by poetry,
That rules the soul and charms the will,
She is the deep epitome:
And still—
She is my world; ah, pity me!
A dream that flies whom I pursue;
Whom all pursue, whoe'er they be,
Who toil for art and dare and do.
The shadow-love for whom they sigh,
The far ideal affinity,
For whom they live and gladly die—
Ah, me!
THREE THINGS.
There are three things of Earth
That help us more
Than those of heavenly birth
That all implore—
Than Love or Faith or Hope,
For which we strive and grope.
The first one is Desire,—
Who takes our hand
And fills our hearts with fire
None may withstand;—
Through whom we're lifted far
Above both moon and star.
The second one is Dream,—
Who leads our feet
By an immortal gleam
To visions sweet;—
Through whom our forms put on
Dim attributes of dawn.
The last of these is Toil,—
Who maketh true,
Within the world's turmoil
The other two;—
Through whom we may behold
Ourselves with kings enrolled.