Chapter XIII

Love me not, Dearest, for the smile,
The tender greeting, or the wile
By which, unconscious of its road,
My soul seeks thine in its abode;
Nor say "I love thee of thine eyes,--"
For when Death shuts them, where thy skies?
But love me for my love,
Then am I safe from all surprise,
And thou above
The loss of all that dies.