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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
XIII.
Let me be near thee, and I will not touchThy hand; or grieve thee with reproach or praise;
Or look into thine eyes. Is this too much?
Sweet Lady, say not so, for I would gaze
On thee for ever. Be but what thou art,
A Beauty shrined within a silver haze;
And in the silence let me fill my heart
With memories calmly stored for wintry days.
O Lady! there is sorrow here below;
And gladness seldom comes, and cannot last:
Thou art all summer: thou wilt never know
The cold and cloudy skies which I forecast:
Deny not thou long years of future woe
Their comfort sad and sole—a happy Past.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |