A Profession of Faith

Each day watched die together binds us fast, 
And each woe of that one black year and all 
The waiting and the watching of the past
Bind close and closer, since I first was thrall—
Surely old Love is sweeter far than new,
And old shared sin is lighter through the sharing,
And sin's pain borne together sweet through bearing:
How should I ever turn my heart from you 
O Mistress of so long? How should I go,
To some strange woman knowing not my pain
Or night long vigils, or long dumb delays
That were, or hope deferred, or schemings slow 
Or the quick lie and plottings of the brain,
That we two knew through those three hundred days?