Here on the ridge of my upward travel
Ere the life-line dips to the darkening vales,
Sadly I turn, and would fain unravel
The entangled maze of a search that fails.
When and where have I seen and passed her?
What are the words I forgot to say?
Should we have met had a boat rowed faster?
Should we have loved had I stayed that day?
Was it her face that I saw, and started,
Gliding away in a train that crossed?
Was it a form that I once, faint-hearted,
Followed awhile in a crowd, and lost?
Was it there she lived, when the train went sweeping
Under the moon through the landscape hushed?
Somebody called me, I woke from sleeping,
Saw but a hamlet—and on we rushed.
Listen and linger—She yet may find me
In the last faint flush of the waning light—
Never a step on the path behind me;
I must journey alone, to the lonely night.
But is there somewhere on earth, I wonder,
A fading figure, with eyes that wait,
Who says, as she stands in the distance yonder,
“He cometh never, or comes too late”?
Sir Alfred Lyall.
IF ...?
SO you but love me, be it your own way,
In your own time, no sooner than you will,
No warmer than you would from day to day,
But love me still!
Each day that still you love me seems to me
A little fairer than the day before;
For, daily given, love’s least must daily be
A little more.
And be my most gain’d your least given, if such
Your sweet will be! I reckon not the cost,
Nor count the gain, by little or by much,
Or least or most.