211 The Coup de Grace

IF I were very sure

That all was over betwixt you and me—

That, while this endless absence I endure

With but one mood, one dream, one misery

Of waiting, you were happier to be free,—

Then I might find again

In cloud and stream and all the winds that blow,

Yea, even in the faces of my fellowmen,

The old companionship; and I might know

Once more the pulse of action, ere I go.

But now I cannot rest,

While this one pleading, querulous tone without

Breaks in and mars the music in my breast.

I open the closed door—lo! all about,

What seem your lingering footprints; then I doubt.

Waken me from this sleep!

Strike fearless, let the naked truth-edge gleam!

For while the beautiful old past I keep,

I am a phantom, and all mortals seem

But phantoms, and my life fades as a dream.