Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/The Wrongs of Love
CHAPTER XIX.
Alas, how bitter are the wrongs of love
Life has no other sorrow so acute:
For love is made of every fine emotion,
Of generous impulses, and noble thoughts;
It looketh to the stars, and dreams of Heaven;
It nestles 'mid the flowers, and sweetens earth.
Love is aspiring, yet is humble, too:
It doth exalt another o'er itself,
With sweet heart-homage, which delights to raise
That which it worships; yet is fain to win
The idol to its lone and lowly home
Of deep affection. 'Tis an utter wreck
When such hopes perish. From that moment, life
Has in its depths a well of bitterness,
For which there is no healing.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE WRONGS OF LOVE
In The New York Mirror (10th March 1838), as The Wrongs of Love