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Upon his heart, which yearned to see
The haunts and loves of infancy.
He knew her faithless, nathless, ever;
He loved her, though no more his own;
Nor could he proudly now dissever
The chain that round his heart was thrown.
He loved her without hope, yet true,
And sought her but to say adieu.
For even in parting there is pleasure,
A bitter joy that wrings the soul;
And there is grief surpassing measure
That will not bide nor brook control;
And yet a formal fond-leave taking
Is wished for by a heart nigh breaking.
Oh, there is something in the feeling,
And trembling falter of the hand,
And something in the tear down stealing,
And voice so broken and so bland,
And something in the word farewell
That worketh like a powerful spell!
