THOU LOVEST ME NO MORE.
77
But think thou not,
Proud and perfidious one, my strong, stern pride
Shall fail me in my solitude. Ah no,
The unrelenting tear may never break
Forth from its deep and hidden fount. The spell
Of passion still is on me, but disdain
Heeds not the murmuring tone of love's wild chant,
That rises like the low voice of the wind
Wandering at midnight o'er the mouldering chords
Of a neglected harp. For ever crushed
And broken be the rosy memories
That in their fairy beauty floated erst
Through my love-lighted soul.
Proud and perfidious one, my strong, stern pride
Shall fail me in my solitude. Ah no,
The unrelenting tear may never break
Forth from its deep and hidden fount. The spell
Of passion still is on me, but disdain
Heeds not the murmuring tone of love's wild chant,
That rises like the low voice of the wind
Wandering at midnight o'er the mouldering chords
Of a neglected harp. For ever crushed
And broken be the rosy memories
That in their fairy beauty floated erst
Through my love-lighted soul.
Thy ring is cold,
It seems to bind my finger with a spell
Of ice, for its bright circle is not now
The emblem of unending truth and trust.
I'm gazing on thy picture, but I see
No smile of sweet endearment on these lips,
No high devotion on this pale, stern brow,
It seems to bind my finger with a spell
Of ice, for its bright circle is not now
The emblem of unending truth and trust.
I'm gazing on thy picture, but I see
No smile of sweet endearment on these lips,
No high devotion on this pale, stern brow,
