The Exile

You too mistook me; for no man is wise Whom Love enclouds. Nor soul-piercing nor keen Your vision, else there never would have been A cause for parting. Love-enwrapped, your eyes Failed in my love Love's self to recognise: You saw its outer garment, where the green Of perfect faith was marred by passion's sheen, By outworn patience and desire's disguise. Had you but read me to the inner soul, You would have held me fast. I can forego All that is sought of hand and lip, the whole Of Love's poor joy. But I have need to know That, when the heart fails, I may come and rest My head upon your wide and sheltering breast.