Shapes of Clay

When at your window radiant you've stood

I've sometimes thought—forgive me if I've erred—

That some slight thought of me perhaps has stirred

Your heart to beat less gently than it should.

I know you beautiful; that you are good

I hope—or fear—I cannot choose the word,

Nor rightly suit it to the thought. I've heard

Reason at love's dictation never could.

Blindly to this dilemma so I grope,

As one whose every pathway has a snare:

If you are minded in the saintly fashion

Of your pure face my passion's without hope;

If not, alas! I equally despair,

For what to me were hope without the passion?