AS not a bud that burgeons 'mid the bowers;
As not a leaf on any tree that grows,
But to its neighbor some unlikeness shows,
Made clearer still through all the blossoming hours.
Thus hath it chanced that, since the world began,
No soul hath found its fellow; fates may blend
In the close ties of lover, husband, friend,
Yet through some subtle difference, man from man
Severed, sees not his brother's innermost life;
The lover his sweet mistress knows in part,
And each to other half revealed in heart,
Pass deathward, the true husband and true wife.
Shall heaven make all things plain? Nay, who can tell?
Only, sick heart! like the sore-wounded dove,
Seeking her distant nest, hold fast to love,
Till death's deep curfew tolls its vesper bell.
