Severance

My life thy life unto itself doth fold Closer than death. My soul clasps all of thine, As in the bud rose-petals intertwine Before the light divides them. I behold Deep in the mystic shadow-caverns shine Thine image on the fire-fed sources cold Whereby my spirit dwells; and with the old Foreboding unforgotten, dream divine, Thou dost disturb me. Yet the dim-lit day Dawns down between us, staring face to face, Strange as the stormy Atlantic; with swift pace We tread the track which sets our steps astray; Thy lips are mute; mine move not; evermore I wait and wearily knock at Death’s dark door.

1872.