  Love, do not count your labour lost Though I turn sullen, grim, retired Even at your side; my thought is crossed With fancies by old longings fired. And when I answer you, some days Vaguely and wildly, do not fear That my love walks forbidden ways, Breaking the ties that hold it here. If I speak gruffly, this mood is Mere indignation at my own Shortcomings, plagues, uncertainties; I forget the gentler tone. You, now that you have come to be My one beginning, prime and end, I count at last as wholly me, Lover no longer nor yet friend. Friendship is flattery, though close hid; Must I then flatter my own mind? And must (which laws of shame forbid) Blind love of you make self-love blind? Do not repay me my own coin, The sharp rebuke, the frown, the groan; Remind me, rather, to disjoin Your emanation from my own. Help me to see you as before When overwhelmed and dead, almost, I stumbled on that secret door Which saves the live man from the ghost. Be once again the distant light, Promise of glory, not yet known In full perfection—wasted quite When on my imperfection thrown. |
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