Saturday, October 10, 2009
But 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 though weret mine,
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, tho' the surge
Of some new deluge from a thousand hills
Flung leagues of roaring foam in the gorge
Below us, as for on as eye could see