To a Lady

Now that my page upcloses, doomed, maybe,Never to press thy cosy cushions more,Or wake thy ready Yeas as heretofore,Or stir thy gentle vows of faith in me:

Knowing thy natural receptivity,5I figure that, as flambeaux banish eve,My sombre image, warped by insidious heaveOf those less forthright, must lose place in thee.

So be it. I have borne such. Let thy dreamsOf me and mine diminish day by day,10And yield their space to shine of smugger things;Till I shape to thee but in fitful gleams,And then in far and feeble visitings,And then surcease. Truth will be truth alway.