Words for the Hour/A Letter
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.
Yet wander, woodnote, for thy mate,Or, moonbeam, wed th' inconstant sea—The sorrow of my heart is deep,And therefore it sufficeth me.