The Enquiry

O SAY, if into sudden storm
  Some future cloud we may not shun
Should burst, and Love’s bright world deform,
  His and your Poet leaving one
Scorning and scorned of heartless men,—
Belov’ed, would you love me then?

Stung by the world’s eternal guile,
  Should the defiance of despair
Plant on my cheek its bitter smile,
  And writhe so long and whiten there
That it might freshen ne’er again,—
Belov’ed, would you love me then?

Should long, long years of absence scowl
  And ’twixt us under heaven’s wide cope,
Should regions spread or oceans roll
  That question thus might even Hope—
“How can you ever meet again?”
Belov’ed, would you love me then?
.  .  .  .  .
Love is wayward, Beauty wilful,
Hence however—ever skilful
Be the wit that like a gem,
Would supremely richen them,
They will sometimes take offence
At the very brightest sense,
As though for happy spite they meant
To clothe delight with discontent.
.  .  .  .  .
The manifold hills, forsaken of the sun,
Are dusking into one
Featureless Mightiness gloomed up with dun,
And in the solitude of heaven afar
There shineth a sole star:
Even so the memory of one adored
With all Affection’s hoard
Of golden feelings treasured up for truth
In vain throughout our youth,
A far bright mystery, still shines apart
O’er the wide vacancy of Love’s lone heart!