Query

This doubtful love has slumbered long— At most, a shadow-mobled flame, The murmur of a muted song; And scarce will tell its rightful name Lest love should do our friendship wrong. Fair comrade, have you found, as I, A tremor in some troubling vein When shoulders touch, the subtle sigh That is not grief, that is not pain, And vague delight in being nigh? Have you, as I, the peril known Of loitering where the leaves of fall, Like tatters torn from dryads flown, Have made, beneath the pines' black pall, A secret, splendid bed and lone Sweet friend, would you my silence have— A silence wrought of hushed desire? Or speech wherein like some long wave The riven deeps of love aspire? Sweet friend, would you my- silence have? Can you, or I, a lover find, And keep the tender friend that is ? With closing arms our friendship bind, Affirm the hand-clasp with a kiss— And lose not more than lovers find ? This doubtful love has slumbered long— At most, a shadow-mobled flame, The murmur of a muted song; And scarce will tell its rightful name, Lest love should do our friendship wrong.