[If I were loved]1, as I desire to be, 
What is there in the great sphere of the earth,
And range of evil between death and birth, 
That I should fear -- if I were loved by thee? 
All the inner, all the outer world of pain 
Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine,
As I have heard that, somewhere in the main, 
Fresh water-springs come up through bitter brine.
'Twere joy, not fear, clasped hand in hand with thee,
To wait for death -- mute -- careless of all ills, 
Apart upon a mountain, though the surge 
Of some new deluge from a thousand hills 
Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge
Below us, as far on as eye could see.