SONNET.

Were I to die, you'd break your heart, you say.

Well, if it do but bend, I'm satisfied —

Bend and rebound — for hearts are temper-tried,

Mild steel, not hardened, with the spring and play

Of excellent tough swords. It's not that way

That you'll be perishing. But when I've died,

When snap! my light goes out, what will betide

You, if the heart-breaks give you leave to stay?

What will be left, I wonder, if you lose

All that you gave me? “All? A year or so

Out of a life,” you say. But worlds, say I,

Of kisses timeless given in ecstasy

That gave me Real You. I die: you go

With me. What's left? Limbs, clothes, a pair of shoes?...