310
A SHEAF GLEANED
SONNET.
My soul has a secret that no mortal must hear,
A love, by its object not guessed and not known,
A love, which as hopeless I never may own,
A love born to be buried with me in my bier.
Alas! that unnoted I must ever be near!
Always, always beside her, yet always alone;
To the end of my journey as dumb as a stone,
Not daring to ask e'en for compassion a tear.
As to her, though God made her gentle and tender,
She holds on her path, meek, abstracted, and calm,
Her life is the rich music low-breathed of a psalm,
Nor dreams of the homage one's heart yearns to render.
And if haply, O Verse, thou should'st fall in her way,
'Ah me! who is this lady?' is all she would say.
