Though I waste watches framing words to fetter

Some spirit to mine own in clasp and kiss,

Out of the night there looms a sense ’twere better

To fail obtaining whom one fails to miss.

For winning love we win the risk of losing,

And losing love is as one’s life were riven;

It cuts like contumely and keen ill-using

To cede what was superfluously given.

Let me then feel no more the fateful thrilling

That devastates the love-worn wooer’s frame,

The hot ado of fevered hopes, the chilling

That agonizes disappointed aim!

So may I live no junctive law fulfilling,

And my heart’s table bear no woman’s name.

1866.

Sketch of person walking long path to building on hill