To L. R. E.

When first I saw you—felt you take my hand, I could not speak for happiness to find How more than all they said your heart was kind, How strong you were, and quick to understand— I dared not say: "I who am least of those Who call you friend,—I love you, and I crave A little love that I may be more brave Because one watches me who cares and knows." So, silent, long ago I used to look High up along the shelves at one great book, And longed to see its contents, childishwise, And now I know it for my Poet's own,— So sometime shall I know you and be known, And looking upward, I shall find your eyes.