Sonnet

What is there in the great sphere of the earth,

And range of evil between death and birth,

That I should fear,—if I were loved by thee?

All the inner, all the outer world of pain

Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine,

As I have heard that, somewhere in the main,

Fresh-water-springs come up through bitter brine.

'Twere joy, not fear, clasped hand-in-hand with thee,

To wait for death—mute—careless of all ills,

Apart upon a mountain, though the surge

Of some new deluge from a thousand hills

Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge

Below us, as far on as eye could see.