To One Across the Way

When at your window radiant you’ve stood
  I’ve sometimes thought⁠—forgive me if I erred⁠—
  That some slight thought of me perhaps has stirred
Your heart to beat less gently than it should.
I know you beautiful; that you are good
  I hope⁠—or fear⁠—I cannot choose the word,
  Nor rightly suit it to the thought. I’ve heard
Reason at love’s dictation never could.
Blindly to this dilemma so I grope,
  As one whose every pathway has a snare:
    If you are minded in the saintly fashion
Of your pure face my passion’s without hope;
  If not, alas! I equally despair,
    For what to me were hope without the passion?