XII.

 As the lone, frighted user of a night-road Suddenly turns round, nothing to detect, Yet on his fear’s sense keepeth still the load Of that brink-nothing he doth but suspect; And the cold terror moves to him more near Of something that from nothing casts a spell, That, when he moves, to fright more is not there, And’s only visible when invisible So I upon the world turn round in thought, And nothing viewing do no courage take, But my more terror, from no seen cause got, To that felt corporate emptiness forsake, And draw my sense of mystery’s horror from Seeing no mystery’s mystery alone. 

 

XIII.

 When I should be asleep to mine own voice In telling thee how much thy love’s my dream, I find me listening to myself, the noise Of my words othered in my hearing them. Yet wonder not: this is the poet’s soul. I could not tell thee well of how I love, Loved I not less by knowing it, were all My self my love and no thought love to prove. What consciousness makes more by consciousness, It makes less, for it makes it less itself, My sense of love could not my love rich-dress Did it not for it spend love’s own love-pelf. Poet’s love’s this (as in these words I prove thee): I love my love for thee more than I love thee. 

 

XIV.

 We are born at sunset and we die ere morn, And the whole darkness of the world we know, How can we guess its truth, to darkness born, The obscure consequence of absent glow? Only the stars do teach us light. We grasp Their scattered smallnesses with thoughts that stray, And, though their eyes look through night’s complete mask, Yet they speak not the features of the day. Why should these small denials of the whole More than the black whole the pleased eyes attract? Why what it calls «worth» does the captive soul Add to the small and from the large detract? So, put of light’s love wishing it night’s stretch, A nightly thought of day we darkly reach. 

 

XV.

 Like a bad suitor desperate and trembling From the mixed sense of being not loved and loving, Who with feared longing half would know, dissembling With what he’d wish proved what he fears soon proving, I look with inner eyes afraid to look, Yet perplexed into looking, at the worth This verse may have and wonder, of my book, To what thoughts shall’t in alien hearts give birth. But, as he who doth love, and, 

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