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!