THE
DRAWING ROOM SCRAP-BOOK.
THE FAREWELL.
I DARE not look upon that face,
My bark is in the bay,
Too much already its soft grace
Has won from me delay.
A few short hours, and I must gaze
On those sad eyes no more,
A dream will seem the pleasant days
Past on this lonely shore.
I love thee not—my heart has cast
Its inward life away;
The many memories of the past
Leave little for to-day.
Thou art to me a thing apart
From passion, hope, or fear;
Yet ’tis a pleasure to my heart
To know thou art so dear.
It shows me I have something left
Of what youth used to be;
The spirit is not quite bereft
That dreams of one like thee.
I know there is another hour,
When I have left this isle,
When there will be but little power
In thy forgotten smile.
5
