The Torn Letter


I tore your letter into strips
      No bigger than the airy feathers
      That ducks preen out in changing weathers
Upon the shifting ripple-tips.


In darkness on my bed alone
      I seemed to see you in a vision,
      And hear you say: “Why this derision
Of one drawn to you, though unknown?”


Yes, eve’s quick mood had run its course,
      The night had cooled my hasty madness;
      I suffered a regretful sadness
Which deepened into real remorse.


I thought what pensive patient days
      A soul must know of grain so tender,
      How much of good must grace the sender
Of such sweet words in such bright phrase.


Uprising then, as things unpriced
      I sought each fragment, patched and mended;
      The midnight whitened ere I had ended
And gathered words I had sacrificed.


But some, alas, of those I threw
      Were past my search, destroyed for ever:
      They were your name and place; and never
Did I regain those clues to you.


I learnt I had missed, by rash unheed,
      My track; that, so the Will decided,
      In life, death, we should be divided,
And at the sense I ached indeed.


That ache for you, born long ago,
      Throbs on; I never could outgrow it.
      What a revenge, did you but know it!
But that, thank God, you do not know.

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