Chapter I
The storm that snapped our fate’s one ship in twainHath blown my half o’ the wreck from thine apart.O Love! O Love! across the gray-waved mainTo thee-ward strain my eyes, my arms, my heart.I ask my God if e’en in His sweet place,Where, by one waving of a wistful wing,My soul could straightway tremble face to faceWith thee, with thee, across the stellar ring—Yea, where thine absence I could ne’er bewailLonger than lasts that little blank of blissWhen lips draw back, with recent pressure pale,To round and redden for another kiss—Would not my lonesome heart still sigh for theeWhat time the drear kiss-intervals must be?