HE.
BECAUSE thou wast cold and proud,
And as one alone in the crowd,
And because of thy wilful and wayward look,
I thought, as I saw thee above my book,
“I will prove if her heart be flesh or stone;”
And in seeking thine, I have found my own.
SHE.
Because thou wast proud and cold,
And because of the story told
That never had woman a smile from thee,
I thought as I glanc’d, “If he frown on me,
Why, be it so! but his peace shall atone;”
And in troubling thine, I have lost my own.
William Young.
AT THY GRAVE.
WAVES the soft grass at my feet;
Dost thou feel me near thee, sweet?
Though the earth upon thy face
Holds thee close from my embrace,
Yet my spirit thine can reach,
Needs betwixt us twain no speech,
For the same soul lives in each.
Now I meet no tender eyes
Seeking mine in soft surmise
At some broken utterance faint,
Smile quick brightening, sigh half spent;
Yet in some sweet hours gone by,
No responding eye to eye
Needed we for sympathy.
Love, I seem to see thee stand
Silent in a shadowy land,
With a look upon thy face
As if even in that dull place
Distant voices smote thine ears,
Memories of vanished years,
Or faint echoes of those tears.
Yet I would not have it thus;
Then would be most piteous
Our divided lives, if thou
An imperfect bliss should know;
Sweet my suffering, if to thee
Death has brought the faculty
Of entire felicity.
Rather would I weep in vain,
That thou canst not share my pain,
Deem that Lethean waters roll
Softly o’er thy separate soul,
Know that a divided bliss
Makes thee careless of my kiss,
Than that thou shouldst feel distress.