On Deck

There is nothing to remember in me, Nothing I ever said with a grace, Nothing I did that you care to see, Nothing I was that deserves a place In your mind, now I leave you, set you free.

Conceded! In turn, concede to me, Such things have been as a mutual flame. Your soul's locked fast; but, love for a key, You might let it loose, till I grew the same In your eyes, as in mine you stand: strange plea!

For then, then, what would it matter to me That I was the harsh, ill-favored one? We both should be like as pea and pea; It was ever so since the world begun: So, let me proceed with my reverie.

How strange it were if you had all me, As I have all you in my heart and brain, You, whose least word brought gloom or glee, Who never lifted the hand in vain-- Will hold mine yet, from over the sea!

Strange, if a face, when you thought of me, Rose like your own face present now, With eyes as dear in their due degree, Much such a month, and as bright a brow, Till you saw yourself, while you cried "Tis She!"

Well, you may, you must, set down to me Love that was life, life that was love; A tenure of breath at your lips' decree, A passion to stand as your thoughts approve, A rapture to fall where your foot might be.

But did one touch of such love for me Come in a word or a look of yours, Whose words and looks will, circling, flee Round me and round while life endures,-- Could I fancy "As I feel, thus feels He;"

Why, fade you might to a thing like me, And your hair grow these coarse hanks of hair, Your skin, this bark of a gnarled tree,-- You might turn myself!--should I know or care, When I should be dead of joy, James Lee?