There is no Heaven--this is the best; O hold me closer to your breast; Let your face lean upon my face, That there no longer shall be space Between our lips, between our eyes. I feel your bosom’s fall and rise. O hold me near and yet more near; Ah sweet; I wonder do you know How lone and cold, how sad and drear, Was I a little while ago; Sick of the stress, the strife, the stir; But I have found you, Christopher. III. If only you had come before! (This is the thing I most deplore) A seemlier woman you had found, More calm, by courtesies more bound, Less quick to greet you, more subdued Of appetite; of slower mood. But ah! you come so late, so late! This time of day I can’t pretend With slight, sweet things to satiate The hunger-cravings. Nay, my friend, I cannot blush and turn and tremble, Wax loth as younger maidens do. Ah, Christopher, with you, with you, You would not wish me to dissemble? IV. So long have all the days been meagre, With empty platter, empty cup, No meats nor sweets to do me pleasure, That if I crave--is it over-eager, The deepest draught, the fullest measure, The beaker to the brim poured up? V. Shelley, that sprite from the spheres above, Says, and would make the matter clear, That love divided is larger love;-- We’ll leave those things to the bards, my dear. For you never wrote a verse, you see; And I--my verse is not fair nor new. Till the world be dead, you shall love but me, Till the stars have ceased, I shall love but you. EPILOGUE.