I thought that I might see you, sweet,
That after all this weary year
By some good fortune we might meet,
And kiss each other here.
I told my heart to bide awhile,
And not to faint with vain regret;
I even forced my lips to smile,
My conscience to forget.
I killed depression as it rose,
And built new castles on the sand;
This was the place my fancy chose
That I should hold your hand.
And I have held your hand, my dear,
A second, daring not to press
Your finger-tips, in mortal fear
To meet your eyes; and yet I bless
That little moment none the less.