Is there a way that might I ache yet more?
For, missing thee is more than can I stand;
Yet also, do I ache by my own hand
For fearing action, boyish on that score,

That would us bring together all the more.
How pure would be our life were I a man?
If rather built, a castle than of sand,
I could, a dream produce in granite, or

At least, could give some substance to our life,
Which long we spun with threads of gossamer.
Remote, has been our touch–not man, nor wife,
Could we, ourselves, have truly called, for fear
Of facing a reality too sad,
Dispersing but what little web we had.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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