Chapter XXVII

Dearest of dearer things, that are to me
More dear each hour that my spirit grows
In its intensity of love, and flows
With warm desire; thy true love I would see,
Crowning that which I oft have wished to be
Th’ attainment of my life. He little knows,
Who hears of me from enemies and foes,
How true is my own soul’s sincerity.
For I had rather brave the fires of hell,
Than know that thou shouldst never come to me,
With love’s embraces in thy fair blue eyes,
And that on earth I ne’er should hear thee tell
My grateful spirit, how thou mightest be
That which alone hath power to quench my sighs.