IF I were very sure
That all was over betwixt you and me—
That, while this endless absence I endure
With but one mood, one dream, one misery
Of waiting, you were happier to be free,—

Then I might find again
In cloud and stream and all the winds that blow,
Yea, even in the faces of my fellow-men,
The old companionship; and I might know
Once more the pulse of action, ere I go.

But now I cannot rest,
While this one pleading, querulous tone without
Breaks in and mars the music in my breast.
I open the closed door—lo! all about,
What seem your lingering footprints; then I doubt.

Waken me from this sleep!
Strike fearless, let the naked truth-edge gleam!
For while the beautiful old past I keep,
I am a phantom, and all mortals seem
But phantoms, and my life fades as a dream.