Oh, little heart, how close you cling,
How close you cling! when I am fain
To put you back as some light thing,
I find you in your place again.
Your voice is silent when we meet,
But still, while others talk aloud,
I seem to hear your pulses beat,
And see you only in the crowd.
And shall I scorn you that you were
So little in yourself before,
That love, which found you only fair,
Has made you all that you are more?
A wiser man ere this had ceased
To yearn for some far distant good,
And sat contented at the feast
Which thus beneath his doorway stood;
For God's wide universe were dull
And vacant for the blind of heart,
While seeing eyes find dew-drops full
And earth alive in every part.
What should it matter, sweet, if eyes
That never saw that tender gleam
In yours, should gaze with dull surprise
On spells whose depths they could not dream?
I cannot leave you, little heart,
I cannot tear you from the breast
Of which your life but seems a part,—
So lie there evermore and rest.