You have loved often—passionately, perchance—
Never with that wild, rapturous, poet-love
Which I might win—and will. Not here on earth:
I would not have the ignoble, trivial cares
Of common life come o’er our glorious union,
To mar its spirit-beauty. In His home
We shall meet calmly, gracefully, without
Alloy of petty ills. . . . . .
Meantime, I read you, as no other reads;
I read your soul—its burning, baffled hopes;