Sometimes, to solace my sad heart, I say,
Though late it be, though lily-time be past,
Though all the summer skies be overcast,
Haply I will go down to her, some day,
And cast my rests of life before her feet,
That she may have her will of me, being so sweet
And none gainsay!
So might she look on me with pitying eyes,
And lay calm hands of healing on my head:
"_Because of thy long pains be comforted;
For I, even I, am Love: sad soul, arise!_"
So, for her graciousness, I might at last
Gaze on the very face of Love, and hold Him fast
In no disguise.
Haply, I said, she will take pity on me,
Though late I come, long after lily-time,
With burden of waste days and drifted rhyme:
Her kind, calm eyes, down drooping maidenly,
Shall change, grow soft: there yet is time, meseems,
I said, for solace; though I know these things are dreams
And may not be!
