<h2>XXIII</h2>
<p>Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead,<br/>
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?<br/>
And would the sun for thee more coldly shine<br/>
Because of grave-damps falling round my head?<br/>
I marvelled, my Belovëd, when I read<br/>
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine—<br/>
But . . . so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine<br/>
While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead<br/>
Of dreams of death, resumes life’s lower range.<br/>
Then, love me, Love! look on me—breathe on me!<br/>
As brighter ladies do not count it strange,<br/>
For love, to give up acres and degree,<br/>
I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange<br/>
My near sweet view of heaven, for earth with thee!</p>
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