AGAIN HIS VOICE IS AT THE DOOR Again his voice is at the door, I feel the old degree, I hear him as the servant For such an one as me; I take a flower as I go My face to justify, He never saw me in this life, I might surprise his eye. I cross the hall with mingled steps, I silent pass the door, I look on all this world contains— Just his face—nothing more! We talk in venture and in toss, A kind of plummet strain, Each sounding shyly just how deep The other’s foot had been. We walk. I leave my dog behind. A tender thoughtful moon Goes with us just a little way And then we are alone. Alone—if angels are alone First time they try the sky! Alone—if those veiled faces be We cannot count on high! I’d give to live that hour again The purple in my vein; But he must count the drops himself— My price for every strain!