Then comes the weary day, that would but[1] bring
Impatient wishes that it were to-morrow;
While every new and every usual thing,
Seemed but to irritate the hidden sorrow.
And this I owe to thee, to whom I brought
A love that was half fondness, half devotion;
Alas, the glorious triumphs of high thought
Are now subdued by passionate emotion.
Upon my silent lute there is no song;
I sit and grieve above my power departed;
To others let the laurel-wreath belong;
I only know that I am broken-hearted.
Enough yet lingers of the broken spell
To show that once it was a thing enchanted;
I leave my spirit to the low sweet shell
By whose far music shall thy soul be haunted.
A thousand songs of mine are on the air,
And they shall breathe my memory, and mine only,
Startling thy soul with hopes no longer fair,
And love that will but rise to leave thee lonely.
Immortal is the gift that I inherit:—
Eternal is the loveliness of verse;
My heart thou may'st destroy, but not my spirit,
And that shall linger round thee like a curse.
Farewell the lute, that I no more shall waken!
Its music will be murmured after me;
Farewell the laurel that I have forsaken!
And, last, farewell, oh, my false love, to thee!L. E. L.
(* Illustration—a poetess, deserted by her lover, plucking the laurel from her hair.)
- ↑ 'not' here in this version but the sense demands 'but', as in Sypher.
