We Cover Thee, Sweet Face. By Emily Dickinson

    We cover thee, sweet face.
    Not that we tire of thee,
    But that thyself fatigue of us;
    Remember, as thou flee,
    We follow thee until
    Thou notice us no more,
    And then, reluctant, turn away
    To con thee o’er and o’er,
    And blame the scanty love
    We were content to show,
    Augmented, sweet, a hundred fold
    If thou would’st take it now.