Her manners, when they call me lord, Which would my proud affection hurt, But by the noble style that still Imputes an unattained desert; Because her gay and lofty brows, When all is won which hope can ask, Reflect a light of hopeless snows That bright in virgin ether bask; Because, though free of the outer court I am, this Temple keeps its shrine Sacred to Heaven; because in short, She's not and never can be mine. IF I WERE DEAD (1862) 20 25 30 (1877) Remember me when I am gone away, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. |