Richard Watson Gilder

The New Day. Part 4. 3. Likeness in Unlikeness

We are alike, and yet, O strange and sweet!
Each in the other difference discerns;
⁠      So the torn strands the maiden's finger turns
⁠      Opposing ways, when they again do meet
Clasp each in each, as flame clasps into heat;
      ⁠So when this hand on this cool bosom burns,
      ⁠Each sense is lost in the other. So two urns
      ⁠Do, side by side, the selfsame lines repeat,
But various color gives a lovelier grace,
      ⁠And each by contrast still more fine has grown.
⁠      Thus, Love, it was, I did forget thy face
As more and more to me thy soul was known;
⁠      Vague in my mind it grew till, in its place,
⁠      Another came I knew not from my own.