I will not let thee go. If thy words’ breath could scare thy deeds, As the soft south can blow And toss the feathered seeds, Then might I let thee go. I will not let thee go. Had not the great sun seen, I might; Or were he reckoned slow To bring the false to light, Then might I let thee go. I will not let thee go. The stars that crowd the summer skies Have watched us so below With all their million eyes, I dare not let thee go. I will not let thee go. Have we not chid the changeful moon, Now rising late, and now Because she set too soon, And shall I let thee go? I will not let thee go. Have not the young flowers been content, Plucked ere their buds could blow, To seal our sacrament? I cannot let thee go. I will not let thee go. I hold thee by too many bands: Thou sayest farewell, and lo! I have thee by the hands, And will not let thee go. 8 I found to-day out walking The flower my love loves best. What, when I stooped to pluck it, Could dare my hand arrest? Was it a snake lay curling About the root’s thick crown? Or did some hidden bramble Tear my hand reaching down? There was no snake uncurling, And no thorn wounded me; ’Twas my heart checked me, sighing She is beyond the sea. 9 A poppy grows upon the shore, Bursts her twin cup in summer late: Her leaves are glaucous-green and hoar, Her petals yellow, delicate. Oft to her cousins turns her thought, In wonder if they care that she Is fed with spray for dew, and caught By every gale that sweeps the sea. She has no lovers like the red, That dances with the noble corn: Her blossoms on the waves are shed, Where she stands shivering and forlorn. 10 Sometimes when my lady sits by me My rapture’s so great, that I tear My mind from the thought that she’s nigh me, And strive to forget that she’s there. And sometimes when she is away Her absence so sorely does try me, That I shut to my eyes, and assay To think she is there sitting by me. 11 Long are the hours the sun is above, But when evening comes I go home to my love. I’m away the daylight hours and more, Yet she comes not down to open the door. She does not meet me upon the stair,— She sits in my chamber and waits for me there. As I enter the room she does not move: I always walk straight up to my love; And she lets me take my wonted place At her side, and gaze in her dear dear face. There as I sit, from her head thrown back Her hair falls straight in a shadow black. Aching and hot as my tired eyes be, She is all that I wish to see.