I <br />You love me, only me. Do I not know? <br />If I were gone your life would be no more <br />Than his who, hungering on a rocky shore, <br />Shipwrecked, alone, observes the ebb and flow <br />Of hopeless ocean widening forth below, <br />And is remembering all that was before. <br />Dear, I believe it, at your strong heart's core <br />I am the life; no need to tell me so. <br />And yet--Ah, husband, though I be more fair, <br />More worth your love, and though you loved her not, <br />(Else must you have some different, deeper name <br />For loving me), dimly I seem aware, <br />As though you conned old stories long forgot, <br />Those days are with you--hers--before I came. <br /> <br />II <br />The mountain traveller, joyous on his way, <br />Looks on the vale he left and calls it fair, <br />Then counts with pride how far he is from there, <br />And still ascends. And, when my fancies stray, <br />Pleased with light memories of a bygone day, <br />I would not have again the things that were. <br />I take their thought like fragrance in the air <br />Of flowers I gathered in my childish play. <br />And thou, my very soul, can it touch thee <br />If I remember her or I forget? <br />Does the sun ask if the white stars be set? <br />Yes, I recall, shall many times, maybe, <br />Recall the dear old boyish days again, <br />The dear old boyish passion. Love, what then?<br /><br />Augusta Davies Webster<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-love/
