After The Italian Poem by Richard Watson Gilder

I know not if I love her overmuch;
But this I know, that when unto her face
She lifts her hand, which rests there, still, a space,
Then slowly falls-'tis I who feel that touch.
And when she sudden shakes her head, with such
A look, I soon her secret meaning trace.
So when she runs I think 'tis I who race.
Like a poor cripple who has lost his crutch
I am if she is gone; and when she goes,
I know not why, for that is a strange art-
As if myself should from myself depart.
I know not if I love her more than those
Her lovers, but I know for that red rose
She covers in her hair, I'd give my heart.