Though I waste watches framing words to fetter
      Some spirit to mine own in clasp and kiss,
    Out of the night there looms a sense ’twere better
      To fail obtaining whom one fails to miss.

    For winning love we win the risk of losing,
      And losing love is as one’s life were riven;
    It cuts like contumely and keen ill-using
      To cede what was superfluously given.

    Let me then feel no more the fateful thrilling
      That devastates the love-worn wooer’s frame,
    The hot ado of fevered hopes, the chilling
      That agonizes disappointed aim!
    So may I live no junctive law fulfilling,
      And my heart’s table bear no woman’s name.

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