I MUST not think of thee； and， tired yet strong，

    I shun¹ the thought that lurks² in all delight—

    The thought of thee—and in the blue heaven‘s height，

    And in the dearest passage of a song.

    Oh， just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng³

    This breast， the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright：

    But it must never， never come in sight；

    I must stop short of thee the whole day long.

    But when sleep comes to close each difficult day，

    When night gives pause to the long watch I keep，

    And all my bonds I needs must loose apart，

    Must doff⁴ my will as raiment laid away，—

    With the first dream that comes with the first sleep

    I run， I run， I am gather‘d to thy heart.

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