Almost Over

YOU say I should not think upon her now:

But then I have stood beside her listening,

And watched her rose—breathed lips when she would sing:

And I can scarcely yet imagine how

I ever should despise that stately brow

And flowering breast that is so pure a thing.

Alas for all the weary blood—running

When from the heart love strives to tear a vow!

And yet perchance—even as you tell me—soon

Her spirit of my spirit will leave hold,

And, when I hear her tread, I shall not blush

Doubly, for love and shame. But then the moon

Assuredly will rise, and Sleep shall fold

Her hair round me, and Death will whisper Hush!