Yes, thou art wretched, and I murmur not;—
My love, we shall be wretched, thou and I!
Till of each aching heart death breaks the knot,
My love, we shall be wretched, thou and I.
Upon thy mouth, scorn its light traces leaves,
I see thine eyes flash out defiantly,
I see the pride with which thy bosom heaves,—
Yet, wretched art thou, love, wretched as I.
Unseen the smart about thy month's unrest,
Concealed the tears which dim thy lucent eyne,
Secret the pain which wrings thy haughty breast,—
Perennial anguish, love, is mine and thine.