I MUST not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,   I shun the love that lurks in all delight—   The love of thee—and in the blue heaven's height, And in the dearest passage of a song. Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng   This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright;   But it must never, never come in sight; I must stop short of thee the whole day long. But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,   When night gives pause to the long watch I keep, And all my bonds I needs must loose apart, Must doff my will as raiment laid away,—   With the first dream that comes with the first sleep I run, I run, I am gather'd to thy heart.