50 FROM AFAR

Félise, whose will, yet undiscerned, commands My willing heart, stayest thou unmoved to see How Love, forlorn and reft of empery, Strains toward thy free heart with bleeding hands? Now the last hour of day runs leaden sands Hast thou indeed, Félise, no thought of me, As all my thoughts take wing and throng to thee Athwart the long leagues of dividing lands? Félise, I am long sick with long delay, Brain-wearied with long dreaming of thy grace, Heart-hungered with long waiting in this place Of days that are so long, whilst Love’s own day, Longed-for so long, draws on with leisured pace To make thee mine, dear love so far away.

Félise, have pity!—cringing, at thy door Entreats, with dolorous cry and clamoring, That mendicant who quits thee nevermore: Now winter chills the world, and no birds sing In any woods, yet as in wanton spring He follows thee; and never will have done, Though nakedly he die, from following Whither thou leadest. Canst thou look upon His woes, and laugh to see a goddess’ son Of wide dominion, and in strategy More strong than Jove, more wise than Solomon, Inept to combat thy severity? Félise, have pity! and let Love be one Among the folk that bear thee company.