But now she slept and was herself and seemed
More than his love and less than he had dreamed.
(4)
She was herself, not his, not anything
That might be his or he might ever own,
Or ever think, or with much thinking bring
To words that may be spoken out and known;
And that dear image he had coined of her
To spend his love, and gilded with her head,
Was but the counterfeit love's pensioner
Should hoard for all his wealth when she was dead,
And all he knew of her was something less
Than what his hand could learn against her side,
[ 17 ]
