If I knew how to stoop, I’d tell you more:
I’d win your love, even now, by a slight word;
But that I’ll say in heaven. Till we meet there,
Unto God’s love I leave you. . . . .
You will glance round among the crowd hereafter,
And dream my woman’s heart must sure betray me.
Not so: I have not schooled, for weary years,
Eye, lip, and cheek, and voice, to be shamed now
By your bold gaze. Ah! were I not secure
In my pride’s sanctuary, this revelation