Classic Poem

Why seek her heart to understand,
If but enough thou knowest
To prove that all thy love, like sand,
Upon the wind thou throwest?
The ill thou makest out at last
Doth but reflect the bitter past,
While all the good thou learnest yet
But makes her harder to forget.

What matters all the nobleness
Which in her breast resideth,
And what the warmth of tenderness
Her mien of coldness hideth,
If but ungenerous thoughts prevail
When thou her bosom wouldst assail,
While tenderness and warmth doth ne'er
By any chance toward thee appear?

Sum up each token thou hast won
Of kindred feeling there —
How few for Hope to build upon,
How many for Despair!
And if e'er word or look declareth
Love or aversion which she beareth,
While of the first no proof thou hast,
How many are there of the last!

Then strive no more to understand
Her heart, of which thou knowest
Enough to prove thy love, like sand,
Upon the wind thou throwest:
The ill thou makest out at last
Doth but reflect the bitter past,
While all the good thou learnest yet
But makes her harder to forget.