In The Solitude

Give me your pitiful, soft hand, and lay
Your cheek against my shoulder, let your head
Rest heavily, and your loose hair be shed
Where the heart breaks with what it cannot say--
Springtime is in the air, the winds of May
Rustle the swaying curtains, and are fled;
Give me your hand-- ah, let no word be said,
Let the great will of silence have its way.

You do not love me, and at last I know
How far lies the lost land for which I pine--
But in the lonely passion of my mood
I feel your pulses toward my pulses flow,
And the dear blood that, through your hand, to mine,
Whispers her pity in the solitude.