Page:Songs of the Affections.pdf/54

46

A mournful thing is love which grows to one so wild as thou, With that bright restlessness of eye, that tameless fire of brow! Mournful!—but dearer far I call its mingled fear and pride, And the trouble of its happiness, than aught on earth beside.

To listen for thy step in vain, to start at every breath, To watch through long long nights of storm, to sleep and dream of death, To wake in doubt and loneliness—this doom I know is mine,— And yet I will be thine, my Love! and yet I will be thine!