I shun the thought that lurks 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 throng
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 doff 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.