120
FROM THE LATTICE.
There is a sense in which I call thee mine—Not as possession runs in Youth's hot blood;But in the helpful, self-renunciant moodOf Aspiration, daring, hand in hand,Tasks that in mystical conjunction stand.
Have I not been too thoughtlessly surprisedInto this mood, so near akin to loving?I hold myself to vexed and fond reproving;Saying, wert thou then so eager to impart,Thou couldst not hide one secret in thy heart?
There is a dead, immortal maiden speaksResponsive, from the legendary tombThat treasures, incorrupt, her bridal bloom:"If I could wish back the advantage ta'en,'Twere to be kind, and give it him again."
