PLATONIC.

I knew it the first of the Summer — I knew it the same at the end — That you and your love were plighted, But could n't you be my friend?

Could n't we sit in the twilight, Could n't we walk on the shore, With only a pleasant friendship To bind us, and nothing more?

There was never a word of nonsense Spoken between us two, Though we lingered oft in the garden Till the roses were wet with dew.

We touched on a thousand subjects — The moon and the stars above; But our talk was tinctured with science, With never a hint of love.

“A wholly platonic friendship,” You said I had proved to you, “Could bind a man and a woman The whole long season through,

With never a thought of folly, Though both are in their youth.” What would you have said, my lady, If you had known the truth?

Had I done what my mad heart prompted — Gone down on my knees to you, And told you my passionate story There in the dusk and dew;

My burning, burdensome story, Hidden and hushed so long, My story of hopeless loving — Say, would you have thought it wrong?

But I fought with my heart and conquered: I hid my wound from sight; You were going away in the morning And I said a calm good-night.

But now, when I sit in the twilight Or when I walk by the sea, That friendship quite “platonic” Comes surging over me.

And a passionate longing fills me For the roses, the dusk and the dew,— For the beautiful Summer vanished — For the moonlit talks — and you.