TO ——

Thus I had dreamed in loving thee: That beauty had not fitter place. Nor any higher destiny, Than in the oval of thy face. That faith thy eager hand had sought And led thy steps in open ways— The love-light in thine eyes I thought A light as honest as the day’s. And in my dream no other lip Had pressed thy forehead save mine own, And thou hadst held in fellowship No other heart, but mine alone. How vain a dream in waking lost! That leaves the dreamer in despair To reckon up the bitter cost And face the future if he dare! Thy love is but a love of things: A bit of lace, a clasp of gold, A silken purse with liberal strings— Thy heart is cast in shallow mold! When hast thou thought to look within And teach thine errant heart the way, With conscience shriven of its sin, Thine angel’s feet might tread some day? Hadst thou to love no faith to give? And knew’st thou not love’s wondrous gift— The things for which ’twere best to live To win, to weigh, to sort and sift? Whatever act of thine did raise A love-thought thou allow’d’st to die Will wither in thine own dispraise With every word that held a lie! If ever I have caused thee pain, My love has seen where danger stirr’d— But thou hast deem’d my care in vain Tho’ warning struggled in my word. My hand was holy in thy hand, My love, as far as love may be, Was guiltless at my soul’s command— God keep thy woman’s purity! Did I in aught so fail thee, dear. That thou hast turned thy love aside? If thou would’st swell it with a tear I’d bend my life to bridge the tide. But this is weakness—born of pain! How soon the heart forgets its wrong And pleads for life and love again With love as patient and as strong! No longer will I humbly sue, Or ask thy languid love to bless— The years shall yield the good and true Unknown in thy unworthiness. —Henry Clayton Hopkins.