From "THE VAUNT OF MAN AND OTHER POEMS," p. 75. Copyright,
1912, by B. W. Huebsch.
I dare not look, O Love, on thy dear grace,
On thine immortal eyes, nor hear thy song,
For O too sore I need thee and too long,
Too weak as yet to meet thee face to face.
Thy light would blind--for dark my dwelling place--
Thy voice would wake old thoughts of right and wrong,
And hopes which sleep, once beautiful and strong,
That would unman me with a dread disgrace:
Therefore, O Love, be as the evening star,
With amber light of land and sea between,
A high and gentle influence from afar,
Persuading from the common and the mean,
Still as the moon when full tides cross the bar
In the wide splendor of a night serene.