I will not let thee go.
Have we not chid the changeful moon,
Now rising late, and now
Because she set too soon,
And shall I let thee go?
I will not let thee go.
Have not the young flowers been content,
Plucked ere their buds could blow,
To seal our sacrament?
I cannot let thee go.
I will not let thee go.
I hold thee by too many bands:
Thou sayest farewell, and lo!
I have thee by the hands,
And will not let thee go.
Robert Bridges.
LONG ARE THE HOURS.
LONG are the hours the sun is above,
But when evening comes I go home to my love.
I’m away the daylight hours and more,
Yet she comes not down to open the door.
She does not meet me upon the stair,—
She sits in my chamber and waits for me there.
As I enter the room, she does not move:
I always walk straight up to my love;
And she lets me take my wonted place
At her side, and gaze in her dear, dead face.
There as I sit, from her head thrown back
Her hair falls straight in a shadow black.