THOUGH I waste watches framing words to fetter

Some spirit to mine own in clasp and kiss, Out of the night there looms a sense ’twere better To fail obtaining whom one fails to miss.

For winning love we win the risk of losing, And losing love is as one’s life were riven; It cuts like contumely and keen ill-using To cede what was superfluously given.

Let me then feel no more the fateful thrilling That devastates the love-worn wooer’s frame, The hot ado of fevered hopes, the chilling That agonizes disappointed aim! So may I live no junctive law fulfilling, And my heart’s table bear no woman’s name.

1866.

[Picture: Sketch of person walking long path to building on hill]