23.07.2007, 11:15
What if some lover in a far-off Spring,
Down the long passage of a hundred years,
Should breathe his longing through the words I sing--
And close the book, dazed by a woman's tears?
Does it mean aught to you that such might be? . . .
Ah! we far-seekers! . . . Solely thus were proved
From dream to deed the souls of you and me;--
Thus only were it real that we had loved,
Grey ghosts blown down the desolate moors of time!
Poor wanderers, lost to any hope of rest!
Joined by the measure of a faltering rhyme!
Sundered by deep division of the breast!--
Sundered by all wherein we both have part;
Joined by the far-world seeking of each heart.
Down the long passage of a hundred years,
Should breathe his longing through the words I sing--
And close the book, dazed by a woman's tears?
Does it mean aught to you that such might be? . . .
Ah! we far-seekers! . . . Solely thus were proved
From dream to deed the souls of you and me;--
Thus only were it real that we had loved,
Grey ghosts blown down the desolate moors of time!
Poor wanderers, lost to any hope of rest!
Joined by the measure of a faltering rhyme!
Sundered by deep division of the breast!--
Sundered by all wherein we both have part;
Joined by the far-world seeking of each heart.