among the lovers I wait willing,
Alone because I cannot be with you,
Pensive in the press of people filling
Promenades with passions old and new.
Yet I am happy in my melancholy,
Vested in a love that like the night
Arrays itself in dreams that clothe me wholly,
Leaving me contented till the light.
Even were I with you, we would wander
Near the things that still are yet to be,
Taking pleasure in that prescient wonder
In which we find the purest ecstasy.
Nor would our love be greater not apart,
Each with each together in the