Ideal

We are not sundered for we never met.We only passed each other in the throng,We moved together but not long . . . not long . . .You were indifferent . . . and I may forgetYour profound eyes, your heavy hair, your voiceSo clear, yet deep and low with tenderness,That lingered on my ears like a caressAnd roused my heart to make a futile choice.······O! Poet that passed me carelessly in the throng—O! Soul that clamoured unto God in song!How should I lose you thus and lack regret?