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BELINDA.
I care not for a heart whose youth
Is gone before its years,
Which makes a mockery of truth,
Which finds a boast in tears.
That is not love, when idleness
Would fill a listless hour—
'Tis vanity, which prizes less
The passion than the power.
I hold that love which can be kept
As silent as the grave,
And pure as dews by evening wept
Upon the heaving wave—
Embodying all life's poetry.
Its highest, dearest part:
And till such love my own may be,
I bear a charmed heart.
