My unrequited tenderness
Living on its own sweet excess.
Oh! I have blushed to hear my song
Borne on the tide of praise along:
But deem not, dear one, only praise
The colour on my cheek could raise;
I blushed to think that thou might'st hear
My song of passion's timid fear;
That with the words a thought might steal
Of all I felt, of all I feel.
On to my tale: it tells of one
Who loved not more than I have done:
That deep and lonely faith which bears
With chance, and change, and lapse of years;
Turns like the floweret to the sun,
Content with being shone upon;
Although its gift of light and air
The meanest with itself may share.
The moon hath shed her gentlest light
On the Garonne's blue wave to-night,
No wind disturbs, no ripple jars
The mirror, over which the stars
Linger like beauties. O'er the tide,
But noiseless, all the white sails glide.
Around are the green hills, where cling
The Autumn's purple gathering;
