Dead Love

If this should never end-- This wandering in oblivious mood Along a rutless road that leads From wood to deeper wood-- This crunching with unheedful foot Acorns, I think, and withered leaves ... Perhaps a rotten root--

If this should never end-- This seeing with insentient eyes Something that seems like earth, and, too, Like overbending skies; This feeling, well--that time is space, Space, time; and each a pallid glass In which Life sees her face--

If it should never end-- The road, the wandering and the feel Of dead infinities that seem O'er our dead sense to steal, And like seas cease above-- Would it much matter, love?