When she sleeps, her soul, I know, <br />Goes a wanderer on the air, <br />Wings where I may never go, <br />Leaves her lying, still and fair, <br />Waiting, empty, laid aside, <br />Like a dress upon a chair. . . . <br />This I know, and yet I know <br />Doubts that will not be denied. <br /> <br />For if the soul be not in place, <br />What has laid trouble in her face? <br />And, sits there nothing ware and wise <br />Behind the curtains of her eyes, <br />What is it, in the self's eclipse, <br />Shadows, soft and passingly, <br />About the corners of her lips, <br />The smile that is essential she? <br /> <br />And if the spirit be not there, <br />Why is fragrance in the hair?<br /><br />Rupert Brooke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/doubts/
