Vain Dreams

I and my love are parted; many days,
Sad days, must be before we meet again;
But surely we shall meet, and all the pain
Of separation die as we embrace, —
When on her bosom lies again my face,
And lips dissevered reunite and strain
Together in a kiss that shall enchain
Our souls too much for any speech of praise.

And when at length we speak, I think I know
Of what our speech shall be. Oh, vain my soul!
Put by these dreams, take up thy load and go;
Each lot, however bitter, hath its goal:
Thy goal is death, not life; and when life ends
The night that hides thy love on thee descends.