Poetry Archives

When you and I have play’d the little hour,
  Have seen the tall subaltern Life to Death
  Yield up his sword; and, smiling, draw the breath,
The first long breath of freedom; when the flower
Of Recompense hath flutter’d to our feet,
  As to an actor’s; and, the curtain down,
  We turn to face each other all alone—
Alone, we two, who never yet did meet,
Alone, and absolute, and free: O then,
  O then, most dear, how shall be told the tale?
Clasp’d hands, press’d lips, and so clasp’d hands again;
  No words. But as the proud wind fills the sail,
    My love to yours shall reach, then one deep moan
    Of joy, and then our infinite Alone.