I feel it on my face— Where, wild blast! dost thou roam?
What do we, wanderer! here, so far away from home?
I do not need thy breath to cool my death-cold brow;
But go to that far land, where she is shining now;
Tell her my latest wish, tell her my dreary doom;
Say that my pangs are past, but hers are yet to come.
Vain words, vain, frenzied thoughts! No ear can hear my call.
Lost in the desert air my frantic curses fall.
And could she see me now, perchance her lip would smile,
Would smile in careless pride and utter scorn the while!
But yet for all her hate, each parting glance would tell
A stronger passion breathed, burned in this last farewell—
Unconquered in my soul the Tyrant rules me still:
Life bows to my control, but Love I cannot kill!
November 1, 1838.