Classic Poem

If I may not see thee much,
Sweet at least it is to touch
Hand and hand;
Sweet at least it is to know
That a heart can understand
And that sympathy can grow.

If I may not win thee now,
I can worship thy pure brow
Where the hair
Coils so lovingly for crown —
Can rejoice to find thee fair,
And may win for thee renown.

That is much to do indeed:
If the world shall give its heed
As it goes
With swift footstep on its way,
Saying, " Here there blooms a rose
Worth an instant of delay; "

Saying, " Here was passion strong
Nobly shrined within a song,
Purely framed: "
Then, my darling, when I pass,
I shall not be all ashamed,
Leaving you above the grass;

Leaving you above the mould,
Watching silver stars and gold
Evermore,
For your eyes are in my song,
And the wings of verse can soar
And the prayer of love is strong.

If I may not hold you quite
To my heart, I may delight
To be near;
I may clasp you in my thought;
At a distance I may hear,
By a sigh I may be brought.

That is love — the love supreme
That outlasts wild passion's dream;
That can stand
When the very stars must fall,
For it travels hand in hand
With the mighty Lord of all.

That is love — the love that gives,
And rejoices while it lives
Still to bring
Gifts eternal to the shrine:
Flowers of summer, flowers of spring,
Gifts unselfish, gifts divine.

That is love, at which men say,
" Though the sunlit month of May
Passes soon
Yet his May, the song-god saith,
Shall be subject not to June
Nor to winter, nor to death. "