Sonnet Ccxcix: Poem by George Henry Boker

My darling, O my darling, let me gaze
My whole heart's fill into thy splendid eyes;
Till from their depths the secret may arise
Which privily of me thy spirit says.
What thinkst thou of me in our severed ways,
When others greet thee, and no longer lies
Thy heart beneath my influence, which dies
Perchance, when thine my heart no longer sways?
How art thou then, Beloved? Dost thou pine
With the same sorrow that makes life to me
Shrink into naught at the mere thought of thee?
Poor is the feast, and tasteless is the wine,
And pleasure's show a weary mockery,
If to itself thy love resembles mine.