I MUST not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
I shun the thought that lurks in all delight—
The thought of
thee—and in the blue heaven’s height,
And in the dearest passage of a song.
Oh, just beyond the sweetest
thoughts that throng
This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright:
But it must never, never
come in sight;
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult
day,
When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must
doff my will as raiment laid away,—
With the first dream that comes with the first sleep
I run, I run, I am
gather’d to thy heart.
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