86 WIND-HARP SONGS.

O pity me,

For it must be

That I should so love thee !

Man cannot scape his fate,

Nor soon, nor late,

Be other than he must.

And yet I trust

And dare to hope ;

Before me there doth ope,

Like as the mirage, fair, might cheat the sight

Of one upon the desert sand,

Such vistas of delight,

With groves of peace,

And springs of calm content,

As make me raptured stand,

And give me no surcease

Of longings, theevvard spent.

I weary thee

With all these plaintive moans,

And this my love-sick air ;

And yet so dreamily

Thou listenest my tones,

And eke my tender prayer,

That I may not forbear,

I am not wont to supplicate,

But such is now my fate !

Ah, Soul within my soul !

O Heart-beat of my heart !

If we must live apart

There is no perfect anywhere.

And all my days shall wear