A Letter

As notes that seek a far response,
Or moonlight, falling on the sea,
Flit past the sullen, dark profound,
Your genial greetings touch not me.

We are too far apart, and you
Too closely wrapt in blessedness,
Pressing a cup whose brim allows
No rose-leaf, in its sweet excess.

The misty realm of dreams to-night
Shall hold us, in its halls of rest—
The mighty God-soul of the world
Includes us, vaguely, in his breast;

But we can meet not, destined thou
On Joy's wild impetus to soar,
I, to rest prostrate, like the dead,
Who know nor Love, nor longing, more.

Yet wander, woodnote, for thy mate,
Or, moonbeam, wed th' inconstant sea—
The sorrow of my heart is deep,
And therefore it sufficeth me.
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