Louis Untermeyer

YOU have not conquered me—it is the surge

Of love itself that beats against my will;

It is the sting of conflict, the old urge

That calls me still.

It is not you I love—it is the form

And shadow of all lovers that have died

That gives you all the freshness of a warm

And unfamiliar bride.

It is your name I breathe, your hands I seek;

It will be you when you are gone.

And yet the dream, the name I never speak,

Is that that lures me on.

It is the golden summons, the bright wave

Of banners calling me anew;

It is all beauty, perilous and grave—

It is not you.