I think if I should cross the room,
Far as fear;
Should stand beside you like a thought —
Touch you, Dear!
Like a fancy. To your sad heart
It would seem
That my vision passed and prayed you,
Or my dream.
Then you would look with lonely eyes —
Lift your head —
And you would stir, and sigh, and say —
“She is dead.”
Baffled by death and love, I lean
Through the gloom.
O Lord of life! am I forbid
To cross the room?