All Round About Me Is the City's Noise

All round about me is the City's noise, —
The pitiless clamor of the London street,
Wherethrough to-day I move with flagging feet:
Ah, shall I live, indeed, to hear thy voice;
Once more in thy dear beauty to rejoice;
To feel thy heart with mine give beat for beat?
Ah, Love, shall lips and hands and spirits meet,
Dear Love, once more, before grim Death destroys?

Or shall Death come beforehand, in Love's place, —
His semblance dark be set for dreadful sign?
O Love, if I no more should call thee mine,
Nor hold thee yet again in Love's embrace!
O Love, if thou no more shouldst own me thine.
Nor even thy tears be shed on my dead face!