by Luis G. Dato
On a sofa, you sit beside me near,
Your picture smiling from the sala wall.
At last! and if your face I see at all,
Beyond recall you rouse desire, I fear!
Not that the world I treasure less, my dear,
Or do not hear the voice of honor call —
I do, but O! their strictures drip will gall,
By contrast, your unfathomed skies appear.
Now I shall come to you and hold your hand,
And whisper to your ear what through drear days
Of longings vain wrought earth as a strange land
Where none the sorrows of the soul allays.
And now you will not fail to understand
Why, without you, dark all have been the ways.