AT AN INN
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HEN we as strangers soughtTheir catering care,Veiled smiles bespoke their thoughtOf what we were.They warmed as they opinedUs more than friends—That we had all resignedFor love’s dear ends. And that swift sympathyWith living loveWhich quicks the world—maybeThe spheres above,Made them our ministers,Moved them to say,“Ah, God, that bliss like theirsWould flush our day!” And we were left aloneAs Love’s own pair;Yet never the love-light shoneBetween us there!But that which chilled the breathOf afternoon,And palsied unto deathThe pane-fly’s tune. The kiss their zeal foretold,And now deemed come,Came not: within his holdLove lingered-numb.Why cast he on our portA bloom not ours?Why shaped us for his sportIn after-hours? As we seemed we were notThat day afar,And now we seem not whatWe aching are.O severing sea and land,O laws of men,Ere death, once let us standAs we stood then!
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