XLVI
Reading edition
WHAT God hath made thee half of graven stone, Half godlike, His own image to portray That thou shouldst so continually stray From every love-shaft that my verse hath thrown For these long years toward thee, and still disown The very sentiment that thou dost say Moves thee to love, though in some other way Than I to thee in my full heart have shown? Loved angel, of some sphere so far beyond The sordid realm of this poor fleeting life, That thou art some fair spirit clothed with form, Tell me, in truth, why thou dost still seem fond Of me, yet ’neath my heart dost plunge the knife Of love’s sad torture, and my spirit storm?