Too Late

I had not measured you by any height,
Plumbed you by any depth, forgotten my bread
For you. And not one word had there been said
To make your strangeness less strange in my sight.
Your height was that of suns; your depth, their flame;
I had not thought a lover would be so,
Like far, warm, troubled music. Could I know
That I would long too late to be the same?
Or know, as I know that a flower is blue,
The stopping of that music was a part
Of love's hereditary hurt and smart?
That you would last, as sudden and as new,
So lodged in every crevice of my heart,
I could not dispossess myself of you?