I put thy hand aside and turn away.
Why should I blame the slight and fickle heart
That cannot boldly go, nor bravely stay —
Too weak to cling, and yet too fond to part!
Dead passion chains thee where her ashes lie;
Cold is the shrine — ah! cold for evermore;
Why linger, then, while golden moments fly,
And sunshine waits beyond the open door?
Nay — fare thee well ; for memory and I
Must tarry here and wait, . . . We have no choice,
Nor other better joy until we die —
Only to wait — and hear nor step, nor voice,
Nor any happy advent come to break
The watch We keep alone — for love's dear sake.
