Julia Boynton

I CANNOT reach thee, we are far, so far

Apart who are so dear! Love, be it so;

Else we might press so close we should not grow.

One doth deny even this so sweet a bar

For fear our souls’ true shape should suffer mar.

Ah, surface-sundered, yet do we not know

A hidden union in the deeps below?

An intertwining where the strong roots are?

Wise husbandmen plant trees, Sweetheart,—a space

Between the trees; but after, soon or late,

High in the sunny air their spreading boughs

Reach forth and meet. In some celestial place,

When thou and I are tall and fair and straight,

We shall clasp hands again,—if God allows.