Sonnet D'Arvers, Le

A flame — an instant, secret, mystic thing —

Burns in my soul, and shall forever burn.

The harm is done; in vain were murmuring;

For she that kindled it will never learn

Whose hand it was. She will not even turn

To me, though to her garment-hem I cling;

Nor one of all the days to be will bring

Me strength to speak to her. I can but yearn.

Albeit God made her tender and so sweet,

Love sets for naught the music of her feet.

For naught love follows her with soft command;

She hears stern duty only, night and day.

Reading these very verses, she will say,

" Who is this woman? " and nowise understand.