XXIX
So, love, not thus for you and me!
And if I am man, no more, expect
I shall remain so, till, maybe,
The anatomist, old Time, dissect
Me, nerve from flesh, and bone from bone,
And raise me spiritual, changed
In all but love for you, my own;
The little matter rearranged,
The little mind refigured. This
Alone I hope or think to keep :—
The love I bear you, and the kiss
Too soft to call the breath of sleep.
And, if you are woman, even there
I do decline : we stand above.
I ask not, and will take no share
With you in what mankind call love.
We know each other: you and I
Have nought to do with lesser things.
With them—'tis chance or destiny :
With us, we should but burn our wings.
64