PLATONIC.

I knew it the first of the Summer —

I knew it the same at the end —

That you and your love were plighted,

But could n't you be my friend?

Could n't we sit in the twilight,

Could n't we walk on the shore,

With only a pleasant friendship

To bind us, and nothing more?

There was never a word of nonsense

Spoken between us two,

Though we lingered oft in the garden

Till the roses were wet with dew.

We touched on a thousand subjects —

The moon and the stars above;

But our talk was tinctured with science,

With never a hint of love.

“A wholly platonic friendship,”

You said I had proved to you,

“Could bind a man and a woman

The whole long season through,

With never a thought of folly,

Though both are in their youth.”

What would you have said, my lady,

If you had known the truth?

Had I done what my mad heart prompted —

Gone down on my knees to you,

And told you my passionate story

There in the dusk and dew;

My burning, burdensome story,

Hidden and hushed so long,

My story of hopeless loving —

Say, would you have thought it wrong?

But I fought with my heart and conquered:

I hid my wound from sight;

You were going away in the morning

And I said a calm good-night.

But now, when I sit in the twilight

Or when I walk by the sea,

That friendship quite “platonic”

Comes surging over me.

And a passionate longing fills me

For the roses, the dusk and the dew,—

For the beautiful Summer vanished —

For the moonlit talks — and you.