TO
Had I not known all that the heart can tell
Of bliss or sorrow, ere thy love was told,
My heart had broken at thy last farewell—
Proud, tender, thrilling, yet that seemed so cold.
But sad regret was all that I could give—
Regret, that all that might have been my own
My heart rejected loathingly, to live
In its mute passion, grieving and alone;
And a sharp sorrow for the pang I gave,
Though it had been thy "double death" to save.
'Twas no new tale that thy lips whispered me;
It is the curse of genius thus to steal
The hearts of many after it, yet be
Lonely and longing ever; and to feel
That though 'tis love we want, the love we win
Is a poor, earthly sense, to which the dream
We cherish is a heavenly; and the sin
Of hollow-heartedness is made to seem
Ours, and a strange ingratitude, while we
Crush in our full hearts our hushed misery.
Yet not thus thou: there was a nobleness
That won me unto thee as friend to friend;
And though I could not suffer thy caress,
Nor to thy love a joyful listening lend,
It was a joy sometimes to hear thy tone,
In its full depth more eloquent than song,
Blend with the spell of poesy its own,
And in its soothing cadence flow along,
While my heart stole the music of the rhyme,
And beat harmoniously with the sweet chime.
