Thy heart in its spring had been blighted
By the hope in which it delighted;
Yet thou had'st pardon'd, and kept
Thy love, and had wept
For him who had thus love requited.
I thought I would then have given,
Hopes of earth, aye, and hopes of heaven,
For the precious tears
Thou hadst shed thro' years,
For him thou hadst loved and forgiven.
I never breathed passion to thee,
A boy, I dared not woo thee;
Enough that my breast
For its secret guest,
And its treasured idol knew thee.
Once I felt the caressing
Of thy soft lips my forehead pressing;
And a fire and pain
Past thro' my brain,
Though 'twas but as a mother's blessing.
Long year's time has been telling,—
Now the dark grave is thy dwelling;
And my heart is as still,
And almost as chill
As the cold sod over thee swelling.
Iole.
