You dream not what a wild sigh dies away
In her laugh’s joyous trill; you cannot guess—
You, who see only with your outer sense,—
A warped, chilled sense, that wrongs you every hour—
You cannot guess, when her cold hand you take,
That a soul trembles in that light, calm clasp!
You speak to her, with your world tone; ah, not
With the home cadence of confiding love!
And she replies: a few, low, formal words
Are all she dares, nay deigns, return; and so