Yet
That yesterdays of rain would yet be cloud,
and ringing bell be anthem, yet not loud.
I love thee - that all grace within a shroud
unless by thy contain, be yet resound.
If in my own faith's feeling, I am found
in yesterdays, too often - thee confound.
I love thee, still oppressing, yet exponed
to some love's intercessing, yet unknown -
Without thy lips caressing, yet unsown,
I love thee for the guessing, yet alone.
And fondness as a dressing, reaps no hone,
yet waiting - yet regressing - yet condone -
I love thee, yet investing - my soul's own!
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