Classic Poem

I

O H , wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine?
As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and pine.
Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, unfit to plight with thine.

II

Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own?
My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a tear run down.
Now leave a little space, Dear, lest it should wet thine own.


Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul?—
Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand; the part is in the whole:
Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to soul.

INSUFFICIENCY

I

There is no one beside thee and no one above thee,
 Thou standest alone as the nightingale sings!
 And my words that would praise thee are impotent things,
For none can express thee though all should approve thee.
 I love thee so, Dear, that I only can love thee.

II

Say, what can I do for thee? weary thee, grieve thee?
 Lean on thy shoulder, new burdens to add?
 Weep my tears over thee, making thee sad?
Oh, hold me not—love me not! let me retrieve thee.
 I love thee so, Dear, that I only can leave thee.