I t once us had sung

        Of t years, the dear and wishd-for years,

        ho eae in a gracious hand appears

        to bear a gift for mortals old or young:

        And, as I mused it in ique tongue,

        I saears

        t, sad years, the melancholy years--

        turns had flung

        A sraightway I was ware,

        So weeping, ic Shape did move

        Behe hair;

        And a voice said in mastery, wrove,

        Guess nohere

        t Deat Love.

        UNLIKE are we, unlike, O princely !

        Unlike our uses and our destinies.

        Our ministering two angels look surprise

        On one anotrike at

        t

        A guest for queens to social pageantries,

        iter eyes

        tears even    make mio play t

        Of c    to do

        ittice-lig me--

        A poor, tired, hrough

        tree?

        the dew--

        A dig these agree.

        GO from me. Yet I feel t I sand

        hy shadow. Nevermore

        Alone upon threshold of my door

        Of individual life I shall and

        t my hand

        Serenely in the sunshine as before,

        it t which I forbore--

        toud

        Doom takes to part us, leaves t in mine

        it beat double.    I do

        And he wine

        Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue

        God for myself,    name of thine,

        And sees ears of two.

        IF t love me, let it be for naught

        Except for loves sake only. Do not say,

        I love her for her smile--her look--her way

        Of speakily,--for a trick of t

        t falls in es brought

        A sense of pleasant ease on such a day--

        For themselves, Beloved, may

        Be c,

        May be unwrougher love me for

        tys wiping my cheeks dry:

        A creature mig to weep, who bore

        t long, and lose thereby!

        But love me for loves sake, t evermore

        t love oy.

        and up ered strong,

        Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,

        Until to fire

        At eit,--ter wrong

        t we s long

        Be eing higher,

        the angels would press on us, and aspire

        to drop some golden orb of perfect song

        Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay

        Rat

        trarious moods of men recoil away

        And isolate pure spirits, a

        A place to stand and love in for a day,

        it.
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