  T That Love should find a way through iron bars And close-drawn bolts—this does not seem so strange;— More strange I count it that with wider range, With naught to mark its course beneath the stars, Love finds its sure, swift way. That day when we First parted, Love, how dangerously near The chance we never met again! though clear In the broad daylight, unrestrained and free As breeze from heaven, naught between us lay But the wide, shining, trackless fields of air That gave no sign; the lonely vastness, where Love saw no clue to guide it, or to stay Its course;—well might the lover in despair |
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