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.
