I did love thee, Lily Lee,
As the petrel loves the sea.
As the wild bee loves the thyme,
As the poet loves his rhyme,
As the blossom loves the dew —
But the angels loved thee, too !

Once when twilight’s dying head
Pressed her saffron-sheeted bed.
And the silent stars drew near.
White and tremulous with fear.
While the night with sullen frown
Strangled the young zephyr down,
Told I all my love to thee.
Hoping, fearing, Lily Lee.

Fluttered then her gentle breast
With a troubled, sweet unrest.
Like a bird too near the net
Which the fowler’s hand hath set ;
But her mournful eyes the while.
And her spirit-speaking smile.
Told me love could not dispart
Death’s pale arrow from her heart.

Hushing from that very day
Passion pleading to have way —
Folding close her little hand,
Watched I with her, till the sand,
Crumbling from beneath her tread,
Lowered her softly to the dead,
Where in peace she waits for me —
Sweetest, dearest Lily Lee.

As the chased hart loves the wave,
As blind silence loves the grave
As the penitent loves prayer,
As pale passion loves despair.
Loved I, and still love I thee,
Angel-stolen Lily Lee.

This is not love: we cannot call it love.
Love would make me aware of infinite things,
Drive me down the spirit’s vast abyss
And through the narrow fastnesses of pain.
This is not love. Yet it holds loveliness
Beyond mere pleasure. Peace and passion both
Grow from the kiss with which I paint drab hours.
It is not love: love is for the gods
And our more godlike moments. Yet when stars
Withhold their splendor, why should we not light
Candles to warm with kindly mortal flames
The all-enfolding, cold, immortal night?

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,
    Where that comes in that shall not go again;
Love sells the proud heart’s citadel to Fate.
    They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then,
When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
    And agony’s forgot, and hushed the crying
Of credulous hearts, in heaven—such are but taking
    Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying
Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.
    Some share that night. But they know love grows colder,
Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.
    Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,
But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.
All this is love; and all love is but this.