Your arms have held me till they seemed my home.

Your heart denies me; and the spells I weave

Are powerless to hold you. You must roam,

And I must, grieving, hide the thing I grieve.

Oh, love that does not love me, will there come

No time when I am all too dear to leave?

Is life so rich without me? Will there be

No ache of loneliness? No sudden sting

Of loss—of longing? Will your memory

Dwell on no passionate, sweet, familiar thing,

Soft touch or whispered word? Are you so free

From any ties but those new days may bring?

So much I miss you that I do not dare

To let my heart turn backward, nor my eyes

Search the wide future that is swept so bare

Of all I coveted. Yet deeplier lies

Than any misery of dull despair

The fear that you may some day come to prize

The things I stand for, when I am not there

To fill your needs with all my sympathies.