Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1834/The Visionary
98
THE VISIONARY.
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THE VISIONARY.
I Pray thee do not speak to me
As you are speaking now,
It brings the colour to my check,
The shadow to my brow.
I pray thee do not look at me,
I cannot bear that gaze;
Though downcast be my eye, it still
Too much my heart betrays.
I feel the past is written there,
The past, long since gone by—
The past, where feelings, fancies, hopes,
Alike unburied lie;
Unburied, for their restless ghosts
Still haunt the sad domain,
And, mockeries of their former selves,
Come thronging back again.
But changed as I and thou art changed,
Or rather me alone,
I never had your heart—but mine,
Alas! was all your own.
Oh, magic of a tone and word,
Loved all too long and well.
I cannot close my heart and ear
Against their faithless spell—
I know them false, I know them vain,
And yet I listen on—
And say them to myself again,
Long after thou art gone.
I make myself my own deceit,
I know it is a dream,
But one that from my earliest youth
Has coloured life’s deep stream;
Frail colours flung in vain, but yet
A thousand times more dear
Than any actual happiness
That ever brightened here.
The dear, the long, the dreaming hours
That I have past with thee,
When thou hadst not a single thought
Of how thou wert with me—
I heard thy voice—I spoke again—
I gazed upon thy face,
And never scene of breathing life
Could leave a deeper trace,
Than all that fancy conjured up,
And made thee look and say,
Till I have loathed reality,
That chased such dream away.
Now, out upon this foolishness,
Thy heart it is not mine;
And, knowing this, how can I waste
My very soul on thine?
Alas! I have no power to choose,
Love is not at my will;
I say I must be careless, cold,
But find I love thee still.
I think upon my wasted life,
And on my wasted heart,
And turn, ashamed and sorrowful,
From what will not depart.
Thy haunting influence, how it mocks
My efforts to forget!
The stamp love only seals but once
Upon my life is set.
I hear from others gentle words,
I scarcely heed the while;
Listened to, but with weariness,
Forgotten with a smile.
But thine, though chance and usual words
Are treasured, as we keep
Things lovely, precious, and beloved,
O’er which we watch and weep.
I scarcely wish to see thee now,
It is too dear a joy:
It is such perfect happiness,
It must have some alloy.
I dream of no return from thee—
Enough for me to love;
I brood above my silent heart,
As o’er its nest the dove.
But speak not, look not, mock me not,
With light and careless words;
It wounds me to the heart, it jars
My spirit’s finest chords.
I’ll not forget thee;—let me dream
About thee as before.
But, farewell, dearest; yes, farewell,
For we must meet no more.