XXVII

DEAREST of dearer things, that are to me More dear each hour that my spirit grows In its intensity of love, and flows With warm desire; thy true love I would see, Crowning that which I oft have wished to be Th’ attainment of my life. He little knows, Who hears of me from enemies and foes, How true is my own soul’s sincerity. For I had rather brave the fires of hell, Than know that thou shouldst never come to me, With love’s embraces in thy fair blue eyes, And that on earth I ne’er should hear thee tell My grateful spirit, how thou mightest be That which alone hath power to quench my sighs.