Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/158

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, my Beloved, when I think

That thou wast in the world a year ago,

What time I sate alone here in the snow

And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink

No moment at thy voice,. . but link by link

Went counting all my chains as if that so

They never could fall off at any blow

Struck by thy possible hand. . . . why, thus I drink

Of life's great cup of wonder. Wonderful,

Never to feel thee thrill the day or night

With personal act or speech,—nor ever cull

Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white

Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull,

Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight.

over again and yet once over again

That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated

Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it,

Remember never to the hill or plain,

Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain,

Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed!

Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted

By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain

Cry. . speak once more. . thou lovest! Who can fear

Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll—

Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?

Say thou dost love me, love me, love me—toll

The silver iterance!—only minding, Dear,

To love me also in silence, with thy soul.