The Exile

You too mistook me; for no man is wise

Whom Love enclouds. Nor soul-piercing nor keen

Your vision, else there never would have been

A cause for parting. Love-enwrapped, your eyes

Failed in my love Love's self to recognise:

You saw its outer garment, where the green

Of perfect faith was marred by passion's sheen,

By outworn patience and desire's disguise.

Had you but read me to the inner soul,

You would have held me fast. I can forego

All that is sought of hand and lip, the whole

Of Love's poor joy. But I have need to know

That, when the heart fails, I may come and rest

My head upon your wide and sheltering breast.