Classic Poem

He loves me not, — she stands as if entranced,
He loves me not, and I am all alive, —
Around her waist her floating tresses dance,
I gave, — she said, — what woman has to give,
My life, my love, my heart, and I am now,
The crimson leaf upon the frozen Bough.

I gave, such agonies are in that thought,
The jewels of an Empire for his song,
The vestments that by purity were wrought,
Which should of right to Princes high belong,
I stand a beggar now beneath the throne,
I am a wanderer forsaken, and alone.

Would the calm Hope of childish sleep was mine,
Would I went gathering flowers across the fields,
When innocence did the pure sense confine,
And the enjoyment that young nature yields,
I see upon the landscape a dull cloud,
The shadow of a weary Heart, and shroud.

And I have sat upon a Parent's knee,
Listening to stories of the immortal few
Who in this sinful world were good and free,
Longing to follow and that life pursue;
'T is past, the world contains their form no more,
I am unanchored, distant is the shore.

Repent! how bitterly, I might repent!
It could not give me back my dreams of youth,
It could not bathe me in the element,
The lovely radiance of unspotted Truth;
My love is false, but I am worse than he,
I have no hope, — he has Dishonesty.