THE STRANGER
Art stranger, Love? because no lover’s handHath clasped my own with pressure strong and sweet?Because my ears heed not those tender talesThat hearts in tune with Spring and thee repeat?Nay, rather walk we closer, soul to soul,Great Love and I; I love thee all too muchTo jar thy music with a lesser tone,Or mar thy radiance with a duller touch.I hold me to thy uses consecrate,As some white temple set beside the sea;With close-shut door no foot may enter inTill fair tides bring its own divinity:Here are no withered flowers against the shrine;No dusty highways through the beaten grassWhere all men go; only the birds and thee,The salt winds and the sun, unstayed may pass.