Classic Poem

Far off in the dim and desolate Past,—
That shoreless and sorrowful sea
Where wrecks are driven by wave and blast,
Shattered, sunken, and lost, at last,
Lies the heart that was broken for me,—
Poor heart!
Long ago broken for me!

My loves were Glory and Pride and Art,—
Ah, dangerous rivals three!
Sweet lips might quiver and warm tears start:
Should an artist pause for a woman's heart,—
Even that which was broken for me?
Poor heart!
Too rare to be broken for me!

O, she was more mild than the summer wind,
More fair than the lilies be;
More true than the star with twilight twinned
Was the spirit against whose love I sinned,—
The heart that was broken for me,—
Poor heart!
Cruelly broken for me!

I told her an artist should wed his art,—
That only his love should be;
No other should lure me from mine apart,
I said; and my cold words chilled her heart,
The heart that was breaking for me,—
Poor heart!
Hopelessly breaking for me!

I spoke of the beautiful years to come,
In the lands beyond the sea,—
Those years which must be so wearisome
To her; but her patient lips were dumb:
In silence it broke for me,—
Poor heart!
Broke, yet complained not, for me!

I pressed her hand, and rebuked her tears
Lightly and carelessly;
I said my triumphs should reach her cars,
And left her alone with the dismal years
And the heart that was breaking for me,—
Poor heart!
Silently breaking for me!

My days were a dream of summer-time,
My life was a victory;
Fame wove bright garlands to crown my prime,
And I half forgot, in that radiant clime,
The heart that was breaking for me,—
Poor heart!
Patiently breaking for me!

But my whole life seemed, as the swift years rolled,
More hollow and vain to be:
Fame's bosom, at best, is hard and cold—
Oh, I would have given all praise and gold
For the heart that was broken for me,—
Poor heart!
Thanklessly broken for me!

Sick with longing; and hope, and dread,
I hurried across the sea;
She had wasted as though with grief, they said,—
Poor child, poor child!—and was long since dead;—
Ah! dead for the love of me,
Poor heart!
Broken, and vainly, for me!

Weighed down by a woe too heavy to hold,
She died unmurmuringly;
And I, remorseful and unconsoled,
I dream of the wasted days of old,
And the heart that was broken for me,—
Poor heart!
Broken so vainly for me!

And my soul cries out in its bitter pain
For the bliss that cannot be,—
For the love that never can come again,
For the sweet young life that was lived in vain,
And the heart that was broken for me,—
Poor heart!
Broken and buried for me!