Hopeless Love

She came to me as comes sometimes in sleep
A mystic midnight vision, strange and fair;
The beauty of her presence tranced the air;
And as she came I felt my soul up-leap
To see her face, and for pure passion weep;
She paused a moment, and swept back her hair,
And looked upon my face, as seeking there
Some little sign in after years to keep.

Then, mad with love and strong with love's despair,
With open arms to bar her path I strove:
But " I must pass," she said; so I gave way,
And then I felt the barrenness of prayer.
The fearful bitterness of hopeless love —
My God, which thing is worse, to love or pray?