To The Elect Of Love, - Or Side-By-Side In Raptest Ecstasy, Or Sundered Wide By Seas That Bear No Message To Or Fro Between The Loved And Lost Of Long Ago. So Were I But A Minstrel, Deft At Weaving, With The Trembling Strings Of My Glad Harp, The Warp And Weft Of Rondels Such As Rapture Sings, - I'd Loop My Lyre Across My Breast, Nor Stay Me Till My Knee Found Rest In Midnight Banks Of Bud And Flower Beneath My Lady'S Lattice-Bower. And There, Drenched With The Teary Dews, I'd Woo Her With Such Wondrous Art As Well Might Stanch The Songs That Ooze Out Of The Mockbird'S Breaking Heart; So Light, So Tender, And So Sweet Should Be The Words I Would Repeat, Her Casement, On My Gradual Sight, Would Blossom As A Lily Might.