First Love
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
      Into eternity.

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