Classic Poem

He loved me. But he loved, likewise,
This morning's world in bloom and wings;
Ah, does he love the world that lies
In dampness, whispering shadowy things,
Under this little band of moon?

He loves me? Will he fail to see
A phantom hand has touch'd my hair
(And waver'd, withering, over me)
To leave a subtle grayness there,
Below the outer shine of June?

He loves me? Would he call it fair,
The flush'd half-flower he left me, say?
For it has pass'd beneath the glare
And from my bosom drops away,
Shaken into the grass with pain?

He loves me? Well, I do not know.
A song in plumage cross'd the hill
At sunrise when I felt him go—
And song and plumage now are still.
He could not praise the bird again.

He loves me? Vail'd in mist I stand,
My veins less high with life than when
To-day's thin dew was in the land,
Vaguely less beautiful than then—
Myself a dimness with the dim.

He loves me? I am faint with fear.
He never saw me quite so old;
I never met him quite so near
My grave, nor quite so pale and cold:
—Nor quite so sweet, he says, to him