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WHAT I BEAR.
He is mine, but not to crown me, not to take my passive hand,Not to lead me forth, the proudest, chosen from a chosen band;Could a ring unite our fortunes, it should wed the sky and sea,—Draw me up from storm and battle, draw my lov'd one down to me.
He is mine by lips that speak not, by the calm, impassive brow,By the eyes whose lids are marble, fix'd on other visions now,By the deathless bond of sorrow, by the length of joy deferred,By the sign of lofty meaning, and the deep remembered word.
As yon ocean-island woman many a league her husband bore,Swimming painfully and breathless, that the dead might reach the shore;Without brighter hope or promise to uphold her weary way,Than to lay him where the steadfast Earth should shelter his decay;
