I will not say, where are the words
That once I used to find?
He may be changed—he may be cold—
How can he be unkind?
True love hath many enemies
Upon this weary earth,
Who cannot bear that others share
The light be giveth birth.
Doubts, fancies, fears, and jealousies,
These are the ghosts whose power
Scaring the spirit with affright,
Is on an absent hour.
There has been long and strange neglect,
And cold harsh words are here,
And yet an inward secret hope
Disputeth with my fear.
It is my deep entire love,
Fond, fervent, and alone,
Apart from all life’s lighter change
That answers for his own.
He cannot be so much beloved,
And yet not love again;
Strong is the subtle sympathy
That bindeth such a chain.
My life is flung upon a cast,
To lose it were to die.
Ah! let me only hear his voice,
Ah! let me meet his eye.
We then were happy—fancies, fears,
Will vanish when we meet;
I know that we shall meet again—
I know it will be sweet.
Thou lovest me—I know thou dost—
Despite this cold changed line;
The instinct strong in my own heart
Assureth me of thine.
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