A LETTER.
As notes that seek a far response,Or moonlight, falling on the sea,Flit past the sullen, dark profound,Your genial greetings touch not me.
We are too far apart, and youToo closely wrapt in blessedness,Pressing a cup whose brim allowsNo rose-leaf, in its sweet excess.
The misty realm of dreams to-nightShall hold us, in its halls of rest—-The mighty God-soul of the worldIncludes us, vaguely, in his breast;
But we can meet not, destined thouOn Joy's wild impetus to soar,I, to rest prostrate, like the dead,Who know nor Love, nor longing, more.
