miscellaneous poems.
59
I remember, I remember, like sweet music soft and low,
A voice that made my pulses thrill, and bade my pale cheek glow;
And the words, the words then uttered (oh! could they be but art?)
When death hath summon'd me away, thou'lt find upon mine heart
We parted, yes, we parted, like a rudely wrenched chain,
As if each broken link and clasp could ne'er unite again.
A voice that made my pulses thrill, and bade my pale cheek glow;
And the words, the words then uttered (oh! could they be but art?)
When death hath summon'd me away, thou'lt find upon mine heart
We parted, yes, we parted, like a rudely wrenched chain,
As if each broken link and clasp could ne'er unite again.
They said that he was weary of a love that could not change—
They told me that his fickle heart a trifle would estrange;
And I spoke with bitter scornfulness, in words I deeply rue,—
How could I think a heart like his could ever prove untrue?
They told me that his fickle heart a trifle would estrange;
And I spoke with bitter scornfulness, in words I deeply rue,—
How could I think a heart like his could ever prove untrue?
