by Charles Williams (1886-1945)
Wilt thou regret I never wooed
As hastier lovers will,
Who, too incredulous of mood,
Attended for thee still?
Deeply my half-reluctant sense
Doubted its own delight,
Till, closing all that high suspense,
I dared believe in sight!
But if I long considered, Fair,
How love at all could be,
Much more will I reject despair
And keep this faith in thee.
I will of doubt make such an art
That no dismay shall move
Sufficient bitterness of heart
For unbelief in love;
And still of death incredulous
Till death, outworn, shall die,
My curious mind shall enter thus