Classic Poem

Thou sayest that I am heartless and a coward,
That I with blandishments thy passion drew
Until thy will was weakened and o'erpowered,
Then back to thee that love again I threw.

Thou doest me wrong when thou dost call me coward.
To kill a passion one must needs be brave:
To tear a love out, strong and hope enflowered,
And cast it warm and pulsing in the grave.

I plucked my love while in its virgin beauty
And memorised it, for I was afraid
That it might warm to lust or chill to duty;
Or change to hate, or suffer blight or fade.

If I was cold I was so but in seeming,
If I was calm, then I did well my part.
To suffer torture is not pleasant dreaming,
Nor ease to petrify a living heart.

While love unsatisfied my heart was wringing
I would not kiss thy close and tempting lips,
And while my starving soul to thee was clinging
I would not touch thee e'en with finger tips.

Thou wert my ideal one, my inspiration,
Thou ledst me up and on to high degrees,
And the great plan of a Divine creation
Shewed me, in nature's splendid mysteries.

Forget me now, nor seek to reinstate me;
I have elected hence to walk alone.
I love a love, not man; oh, do not hate me—
A love etherialised that's all my own.