  I am but little in your sight, A passing thought, a fleeting light That gone, forgotten lies. The humble pastime, that you chose To honour, as you might a rose, O'er which you cast your eyes. Were I some simple, lifeless thing, A book you read, an oft-worn ring, A favourite flower you wear, I might be close to you and know The rapture and the living glow Of lips, and breast, and hair. But as it is, the earth you press, The clinging texture of your dress, The jewel on your hand Know more of Heaven and joys therein Than I, whose soul has never been Where it could understand. |
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