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Poem	(E. L. G.) BENEATH a knap where flown Nestlings play, Within walls of weathered stone, Far away From the files of formal houses, By the bough the firstling browses, Lives a Sweet: no merchants meet, No man barters, no man sells Where she dwells. Upon that fabric fair "Here is she!" Seems written everywhere Unto me. But to friends and nodding neighbors, Fellow wights in lot and labors, Who descry the times as I, No such lucid legend tells Where she dwells. Should I lapse to what I was In days by-- (Such cannot be, but because Some loves die Let me feign it)--none would notice That where she I know by rote is Spread a strange and withering change, Like a drying of the wells Where she dwells. To feel I might have kissed-- Loved as true-- Otherwhere, nor Mine have missed My life through, Had I never wandered near her, Is a smart severe--severer In the thought that she is nought, Even as I, beyond the dells Where she dwells. And Devotion droops her glance To recall What bond-servants of Chance We are all. I but found her in that, going On my errant path unknowing, I did not out-skirt the spot That no spot on earth excels-- Where she dwells!
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