Nor could I hint this truth to Edith; nay.
Unselfish, all ethereal in her thought,
A disembodied soul had held less moods
Touch’d through the senses. One had sooner snared
With tatter’d nets of tow a wind of spring,
Or with his own breath warm’d the wintry air.
Her love’s regard in no way could be reach’d.
At times, I would essay philosophy,
Or try to freight her fancy’s wings with facts.
Like merest sand, flung off a nervous bird,
My pleas were shaken back.
She “There,” would cry;
“Some everlasting everybody’s law
Applied again to me! Nay, nay, this world
Would grind one’s very soul to common dust!”