Songs

I must not think of thee; and, tired [yet]1 strong,
I shun the love that lurks in all delight --
The love of thee -- and in the blue heaven's height,
And in the dearest passage of a song.
Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng
This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright;
But it must never, never come in sight;
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away, --
With the first dream that comes with the first sleep
I run, I run, I am gather'd to thy heart.