AH me, how sadder than to say farewell
It is to meet
Dreading that Love hath lost his spell
And changed his sweet !
I would we were again to part,
With that full heart.
The hawthorn was half-bud, half-flower,
At our goodbye ;
And braver to me since that hour
Are earth and sky :
My God, it were too poor a thing
To meet this spring.
Our hearts — life never would have marge
To bear their tides,
Their confluent rush! Lo, death is large
In boundary-sides ;
And our great [insert Greek] must be said
When I am dead.