TO ONE ACROSS THE WAY.

When at your window radiant you've stood

I've sometimes thought — forgive me if I've erred —

That some slight thought of me perhaps has stirred

Your heart to beat less gently than it should.

I know you beautiful; that you are good

I hope — or fear — I cannot choose the word,

Nor rightly suit it to the thought. I've heard

Reason at love's dictation never could.

Blindly to this dilemma so I grope,

As one whose every pathway has a snare:

If you are minded in the saintly fashion

Of your pure face my passion's without hope;

If not, alas! I equally despair,

For what to me were hope without the passion?