I think if I should cross the room,
Far as fear;
Should stand beside you like a thought—
Touch you, Dear!
Like a fancy. To your sad heart
It would seem
That my vision passed and prayed you,
Or my dream.
Then you would look with lonely eyes—
Lift your head—
And you would stir, and sigh, and say—
"She is dead."
Baffled by death and love, I lean
Through the gloom.
O Lord of life! am I forbid
To cross the room?