Conjecture

I think, love, as I hold your hand in mine,
If starless, cheerless, everlasting night
Should settle suddenly upon my sight.
And I should no more see your eyes divine,
Or golden lights that in your tresses shine.
Or that fair face, my measureless delight.
Or sweet curved throat, warm, beautiful, and white.
Or soft, lithe arms that round about me twine, —

How should I bear to sit with you as now,
And if you looked upon me not to know;
To hear men praise your throat, mouth, eyes, and hair,
Yet feel to me you were no longer fair?
To miss the blush that colors your swift kiss, —
Slay me outright, O God! but spare me this!