But love, the poets say, _is_ blind; So out of sight and out of mind Need not, nor will, I think, be true, My own and only love, of you. 1853 * * * * * Were you with me, or I with you, There’s nought, methinks, I might not do; Could venture here, and venture there, And never fear, nor ever care. To things before, and things behind, Could turn my thoughts, and turn my mind, On this and that, day after day, Could dare to throw myself away. Secure, when all was o’er, to find My proper thought, my perfect mind, And unimpaired receive anew My own and better self in you. 1853 * * * * * Am I with you, or you with me? Or in some blessed place above, Where neither lands divide nor sea, Are we united in our love? Oft while in longing here I lie, That wasting ever still endures; My soul out from me seems to fly, And half-way, somewhere, meet with yours. Somewhere—but where I cannot guess— Beyond, may be, the bound of space, The liberated spirits press And meet, bless heaven, and embrace. It seems not either here nor there, Somewhere between us up above, A region of a clearer air, The dwelling of a purer love. 1852 * * * * * Were I with you, or you with me, My love, how happy should we be; Day after day it is sad cheer To have you there, while I am here. My darling’s face I cannot see, My darling’s voice is mute for me, My fingers vainly seek the hair Of her that is not here, but there. In a strange land, to her unknown, I sit and think of her alone; And in that happy chamber where We sat, she sits, nor has me there. Yet still the happy thought recurs That she is mine, as I am hers, That she is there, as I am here, And loves me, whether far or near. The mere assurance that she lives And loves me, full contentment gives; I need not doubt, despond, or fear, For, she is there, and I am here. 1852 * * * * * Were you with me, or I with you, There’s nought methinks I could not do; And nothing that, for your dear sake, I might not dare to undertake. With thousands standing by as fit, More keen, perhaps more needing it, To be the first some job to spy, And jump and call out, Here am I! O for one’s miserable self To ask a pittance of the pelf, To claim, however small, a share, Which other men might think so fair: It was not worth it! a first time A thought upon it seemed a crime; To stoop and pick the dirty pence, A taint upon one’s innocence. My own! with nothing sordid, base. Or mean, we would our love disgrace; Yet something I methinks could do, Were you with me, or I with you: Some misconstruction would sustain; Count some humiliation gain; Make unabashed a righteous claim, And profess merit without shame: