The Egoists
E
Edith Nesbit
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TWO strangers, from opposing poles,
Meet in the torrid zone of Love:
And their desire seems set above
The limitation of their souls.
This is the trap; this is the snare,
This is the false, enchanting light,
And when it smoulders into night,
How can each know the other is there?
They own no bond of common speech;
Each, from far shores by wild winds brought,
Gropes for some cord of common thought
To draw the other within reach.
Each when the dark tide drowns their star,
Cries out, 'Thou art not one with me:
One flesh we seemed when eyes could see,
But now, how far thou art! How far!'
Each calling, 'Come! be mine! be wise!'
Stands obstinately in his place,
How can these two come face to face,
Till light spring from their meeting eyes?
Could both but once cry, 'Far thou art,
But I am coming!' How the beat
Of waves that part them would retreat,
Resurge and find them, heart to heart!
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