  Where are you hid from me, belovÈd one That I am seeking through the lonely world— A wanderer, on my way home to you? Dark is the night and perilous the road: At many a breast in longing have I leaned, At many a wayside worshipped; and my heart Is tired from long travelling. Perhaps In centuries to come you wait for me, And are as yet an iris by the stream Lifting her single blossom, or the faint Tremulous haze upon the hills—and we Have missed each other. O if it be so, Then may this song reach to the verge of doom— Ages unborn—to find you where you are, My lonely one; and like a murmuring string, Faint with one music, endlessly repeat To you, not even knowing I was yours, Her plaintive burden from the dolorous past: Telling of one upon a hopeless quest— |
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