Here our roads part. Go thou by thy green valley,
Thy youth before thee and the river Nile.
My path lies o'er the desert, and my galley
Has rougher seas to plough (and days) the while.
I know not what to offer you: a smile,
A blessing, a farewell? I dare not dally
Even with the thought of tears. 'Twas but a mile
We walked together, and such things were folly.
I will not hope, who have no faith in fate,
That I shall you remember or you me
Beyond to--morrow. Yet, perhaps the wind
Blowing some morning through its Eastern gate
May tell you of my fortune; and behind
The Western star some evening I may see,
As in a vision of far days more kind,
Your dear eyes watching while the night grows blind.
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
