We
go, but ere we go from home,
As down the garden-walks I move,
Two spirits of a diverse love
Contend
for loving masterdom.
One
whispers, ‘Here thy boyhood sung
Long since its matin song, and heard
The low love-language of the bird
In
native hazels tassel-hung.’
The
other answers, ‘Yea, but here
Thy feet have stray’d in after hours
With thy lost friend among the bowers,
And
this hath made them trebly dear.’
These
two have striven half the day,
And each prefers his separate claim,
Poor rivals in a losing game,
That
will not yield each other way.
I
turn to go: my feet are set
To leave the pleasant fields and farms;
They mix in one another’s arms
To
one pure image of regret.