Chapter XI

Now, should I chance to meet thee passing by,
That holy fear would overcome my soul,
Which poets speak of, as th’ attainèd goal
Of love’s ideal doth seem to greet the eye.
Still, would we ask our own desire why
We find love’s bark oft wrecked upon the shoal,
That lies beneath the quivering waves, that roll
In cold deception of the lovers’ tie.
The old familiar wound comes back to me,
My loved one; the neglect (though thou shouldst think
It scarce neglect) stings nightly my poor heart.
Each day is lost that brings no sight of thee.
Must I then once again this goblet drink,
Of love’s sweet poison, as we drift apart?