As not a bud that burgeons 'mid the bowers; As not a leaf on any tree that grows, But to its neighbor some unlikeness shows, Made clearer still through all the blossoming hours. Thus hath it chanced that, since the world began, No soul hath found its fellow; fates may blend In the close ties of lover, husband, friend, Yet through some subtle difference, man from man Severed, sees not his brother's innermost life; The lover his sweet mistress knows in part, And each to other half revealed in heart, Pass deathward, the true husband and true wife. Shall heaven make all things plain? Nay, who can tell? Only, sick heart! like the sore-wounded dove Seeking her distant nest, @3hold fast to love@1, Till death's deep curfew tolls its vesper bell. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY [MAY 24, 1865] by FRANCIS BRET HARTE AMORETTI: 65 by EDMUND SPENSER WINTER FANTASY by ADELE BABBITT TO MISS F. B. ON ASKING FOR MRS. BARBAULD'S LOVE AND TIME by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD OUR BE'THPLEACE by WILLIAM BARNES THE MARVELOUS MUNCHAUSEN by WILLIAM ROSE BENET PEACE ON EARTH by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON |