Almost Over

YOU say I should not think upon her now: But then I have stood beside her listening, And watched her rose—breathed lips when she would sing: And I can scarcely yet imagine how I ever should despise that stately brow And flowering breast that is so pure a thing. Alas for all the weary blood—running When from the heart love strives to tear a vow! And yet perchance—even as you tell me—soon Her spirit of my spirit will leave hold, And, when I hear her tread, I shall not blush Doubly, for love and shame. But then the moon Assuredly will rise, and Sleep shall fold Her hair round me, and Death will whisper Hush!