Your heart denies me; and the spells I weave
Are powerless to hold you. You must roam,
And I must, grieving, hide the thing I grieve.
Oh, love that does not love me, will there come
No time when I am all too dear to leave?
Is life so rich without me? Will there be
No ache of loneliness? No sudden sting
Of loss—of longing? Will your memory
Dwell on no passionate, sweet, familiar thing,
Soft touch or whispered word? Are you so free