But don't you know it, my dear,
Don't you know
it,
That this day of the year
(What rainbow-rays embow it!)
We met, strangers confessed,
But
parted--blest?
Though at this query, my dear,
There in your
frame
Unmoved you still appear,
You must be thinking the same,
But keep that look demure
Just to allure.
And now at length a trace
I surely vision
Upon that wistful face
Of old-time recognition,
Smiling forth, "Yes, as you say,
It is the
day."
For this one phase of you
Now left on
earth
This great date must endue
With pulsings of rebirth? -
I see them vitalize
Those two deep
eyes!
But if this face I con
Does not declare
Consciousness living on
Still in it, little I care
To live myself, my dear,
Lone-labouring
here!
Spring 1913.
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