275

Doubt Me! My Dim Companion!
Why, God, would be content
With but a fraction of the Life-
Poured thee, without a stint-
The whole of me-forever-
What more the Woman can,
Say quick, that I may dower thee
With last Delight I own!

It cannot be my Spirit-
For that was thine, before-
I ceded all of Dust I knew-
What Opulence the more
Had I-a freckled Maiden,
Whose farthest of Degree,
Was-that she might-
Some distant Heaven,
Dwell timidly, with thee!

Sift her, from Brow to Barefoot!
Strain till your last Surmise-
Drop, like a Tapestry, away,
Before the Fire's Eyes-
Winnow her finest fondness-
But hallow just the snow
Intact, in Everlasting flake-
Oh, Caviler, for you!