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.
55
