 | To the end of the trail |  |
145
WHAT THOUGH YOU LOVE ME
What though you love me? Have you no capriceWould kill my heart if I but knew of it?
What kisses did you leave me to commit?
Through the long nights and days I have no peace
To think your hand may lie without release
One little moment, somewhere, where you sit—
You two—you and the other—fingers knit
Together while all words an instant cease!
Who he may be I know not—and I know
You love me, yes, you love me; but my mind
Is a dark wood where nightsome shadows start.
My hand is nervous as with daggers—Oh!
The jealousy that chokes and makes me blind!
The brooding menace of my bitter heart!
July, 1898.
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