Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/162

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letters! all dead paper,. . mute and white!—

And yet they seem alive and quivering

Against my tremulous hands, which loose the string

And let them drop down on my knee to-night.

This said,. . he wished to have me in his sight

Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring

To come and touch my hand. . . a simple thing,

Yet I wept for it!—this,. . the paper's light. .

Said, Dear, I love thee: and I sank and quailed

As if God's future thundered on my past:

This said, I am thine—and so its ink has paled

With lying at my heart that beat too fast:

And this. . . O Love, thy words have ill availed,

If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!

of thee!—my thoughts do twine and bud

About thee, as wild vines about a tree,—

Put out broad leaves, and soon there's nought to see

Except the straggling green which hides the wood.

Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood

I will not have my thoughts instead of thee

Who art dearer, better! Rather instantly

Renew thy presence! As a strong tree should,

Rustle thy boughs, and set thy trunk all bare,

And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee,

Drop heavily down,. . burst, shattered, everywhere!

Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee

And breathe within thy shadow a new air,

I do not think of thee—I am too near thee.