Leaving her trusting heart a desolate place,
Herself an outcast with an unwept grave,
Perhaps unhallowed too—her last lone refuge.
I've more than loved,—oh I have worshipped you;
I have thought, spoken, dreamt of you alone,
And deep has been my misery! my cheek
Has burnt even to pain when you were named;
I have sat hours thinking o'er your last words,
Have sought my couch for solitude, not sleep,
And wept, I only know how bitterly.
I have no joy in pleasure: all I took
A pride in, once, has lost its interest now;
The days I see you not, to me are blanks,
And yet I shrink from meeting you! I have
Insulted heaven with prayers (prayers not to love you,)
And then have trembled lest they should be heard.
I must forget all this: the veins that throb
In agony will surely learn from time
A calm and quiet pulse; yet I will own,
Though woman's weakness is in the confession,
I never could have nerved my soul to this,
But that I know you wavering and weak,
Passionate, but unsteady; born to win
Hearts, but not keep them. Tell me not you love
Intensely, wholly, well, as I have done.
But oh, farewell, farewell! I give thy portrait
To the red flames,—it is a sacrifice
On which I swear forgetfulness! L. E. L.
