You who guessed my secret vow, not love.
No, you saw with an inner eye the truth;
Would that I could have met that gaze thereof,
Or let just one small voice escape that youth;
Only to give the briefest glimpse of me.
In dreams it comes to lay at my still feet,
Contorted by years, twisted by to be;
A fluttering memory, sickly sweet.
No longer do I wish for some new way,
As I have found a measure of Thy grace.
I would not give this present healing day,
Nor would I let this past take aching place.
For when I look at what that would allow,
I revel in the knowledge of the now.