He holds aloof: my joy is bid await.
O, Margaret, if you understood love’s joy,
How closely ’tis inwoven with fear to lose,
You would not wonder that I tremble, seeing
This shadow blot my sunshine, that my fear
Discolours every circumstance. To me
The common course of things on which men count
Is the only miracle, all chances else
As they are feared are likely. O, do not blame me.
Philip is like an evil spirit beside me