Page:Poems (IA poemstennalfr00tennrich).pdf/19



were I loved, as I desire to be, What is there in the great sphere of the earth, And range of evil between death and birth, That I should fear,—if I were loved by thee? All the inner, all the outer world of pain Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine, As I have heard that, somewhere in the main, Fresh-water-springs come up through bitter brine. 'Twere joy, not fear, clasped hand-in-hand with thee, To wait for death—mute—careless of all ills, Apart upon a mountain, though the surge Of some new deluge from a thousand hills Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge Below us, as far on as eye could see.