I Said I Splendidly Loved You; It's Not True. Such Long Swift Tides Stir Not A Land-Locked Sea. On Gods Or Fools The High Risk Falls, On You, The Clean Clear Bitter-Sweet That's Not For Me. Love Soars From Earth To Ecstasies Unwist. Love Is Flung Lucifer-Like From Heaven To Hell. But, There Are Wanderers In The Middle Mist, Who Cry For Shadows, Clutch, And Cannot Tell Whether They Love At All, Or, Loving, Whom: An Old Song'S Lady, A Fool In Fancy Dress, Or Phantoms, Or Their Own Face On The Gloom; For Love Of Love, Or From Heart'S Loneliness. Pleasure'S Not Theirs, Nor Pain. They Doubt, And Sigh, And Do Not Love At All. Of These Am I.