(E. L. G.)

Beneath a knap where flown
          Nestlings play,
Within walls of weathered stone,
          Far away
From the files of formal houses,
By the bough the firstling browses,
Lives a Sweet: no merchants meet,
No man barters, no man sells
          Where she dwells.

Upon that fabric fair
          “Here is she!”
Seems written everywhere
          Unto me.
But to friends and nodding neighbors,
Fellow wights in lot and labors,
Who descry the times as I,
No such lucid legend tells
          Where she dwells.

Should I lapse to what I was
          In days by—
(Such cannot be, but because
          Some loves die
Let me feign it)—none would notice
That where she I know by rote is
Spread a strange and withering change,
Like a drying of the wells
          Where she dwells.

To feel I might have kissed—
          Loved as true—
Otherwhere, nor Mine have missed
          My life through,
Had I never wandered near her,
Is a smart severe—severer
In the thought that she is nought,
Even as I, beyond the dells
          Where she dwells.

And Devotion droops her glance
          To recall
What bond-servants of Chance
          We are all.
I but found her in that, going
On my errant path unknowing,
I did not out-skirt the spot
That no spot on earth excels—
          Where she dwells!

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