Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Heath’s Book of Beauty, 1833/Belinda
Another soft and scented page,
Fill'd with more honied words!
What motives to a pilgrimage
A shrine like mine affords!
I know, before I break the seal,
The words that I shall find:—
"The wound which you alone can heal—
So fair, yet so unkind!"
There, take your fortune on the wind!
Ah, how the breeze has borne
(As if our malice were combined)
The fragments I have torn!
So let the vows they offer pass—
Vows fugitive and vain;
I should as soon expect the glass
My image to retain.
I care not for a heart whose youth
Is gone before its years,
Which makes a mockery of truth,
Which finds a boast in tears.
That is not love, when idleness
Would fill a listless hour—
'Tis vanity, which prizes less
The passion than the power.
I hold that love which can be kept
As silent as the grave,
And pure as dews by evening wept
Upon the heaving wave—
Embodying all life's poetry.
Its highest, dearest part:
And till such love my own may be,
I bear a charmed heart.