Doubt.

I do not know if all the fault be mine,         Or why I may not think of thee and be         At peace with mine own heart. Unceasingly     Grim doubts beset me, bygone words of thine         Take subtle meaning, and I cannot rest         Till all my fears and follies are confessed.     Perhaps the wild wind's questioning has brought         My heart its melancholy, for, alone         In the night stillness, I can hear him moan     In sobbing gusts, as though he vainly sought         Some bygone bliss. Against the dripping pane         In storm-blown torrents beats the driving rain.     Nay I will tell thee all, I will not hide         One thought from thee, and if I do thee wrong         So much the more must I be brave and strong     To show my fault. And if thou then shouldst chide         I will accept reproof most willingly         So it but bringeth peace to thee and me.     I dread thy past. Phantoms of other days         Pursue my vision. There are other hands         Which thou hast held, perchance some slender bands     That draw thee still to other woodland ways         Than those which we have known, some blissful hours         I do not share, of love, and June, and flowers.     I dread her most, that woman whom thou knewest         Those years ago, - I cannot bear to think         That she can say: "My lover praised the pink     Of palm, or ear," "The violets were bluest         In that dear copse," and dream of some fair day         When thou didst while her summer hours away.     I dread them too, those light loves and desires         That lie in the dim shadow of the years;         I fain would cheat myself of all my fears     And, as a child watching warm winter fires,         Dream not of yesterday's black embers, nor         To-morrow's ashes that may strew the floor.     I did not dream of this while thou wert near,         But now the thought that haunts me day by day         Is that the things I love, the tender way     Of mastery, the kisses that are dear         As Heaven's best gifts, to other lips and arms         Owe half their blessedness and all their charms.     Tell me that I am wrong, O! Man of men,         Surely it is not hard to comfort me,         Laugh at my fears with dear persistency,     Nay, if thou must, lie to me! There, again,         I hear the rain, and the wind's wailing cry         Stirs with wild life the night's monotony.