“Foolish Love! begone,” said I,
“Vain are thy attempts on me;
“Thy soft allurements I defy:
“Women, those fair dissemblers, fly;
“My heart was never made for thee.”

Love heard, and straight prepar'd a dart:
“Mira, revenge my cause,” faïd he.
Too sure 't was shot; I feel the smart,
It rends my brain, and tears my heart.
O Love! my conqu'ror, pity me.

To love is to be doom'd on earth to feel
What after death the tortur'd meet in hell.
The vulture dipping in Prometheus' side
His bloody beak, with his torn liver dy'd,
Is love. The stone that labours up the hill,
Mocking the lab'rer's toil, returning still,
Is love. Those streams where Tantalus is curst
To sit, and never drink, with endless thirst;
Those loaden boughs that with their burthen bend
To court his taste, and yet escape his hand;
All this is love, that to dissembled joys
Invites vain men, with real grief destroys.

What is the world compared to you,—
To having you, holding you, finding you true?
Is there a heart-gain half as sweet
As when you kneel at my feet
Loving me, telling me you are mine?
Is there a victory more divine
Than that I am loved,—and loved too well?
Dearest, the aims of those who dwell
In the empty world are so mean compared
With our Hope of loving,—of having shared
This long life together, and then to be
One in a timeless Eternity …

They said that Love was blind,—alackaday!—
Then strung the lute with heartstrings soft with tears;
And Love was blind, but thoughtless man and maid
Forgot that Love had ears.

They said that Love was blind and let him play
With apple blossoms, sifted through the years;
And now each kindred petal in the spring
Breathes what Love hears.

I will hide my soul and its mighty love
In the bosom of this rose,
And its dispensing breath will take
My love where'er it goes.

And perhaps she'll pluck this very rose,
And quick as blushes start,
Will breathe my hidden secret in
Her unsuspecting heart.

And there I will live in her embrace
And the realm of sweetness there,
Enamored with an ecstasy
Of bliss beyond compare.

So it has all ended in ashes—
This beautiful love of ours,
This love like the breath of dawn
On a summer lea—
This love that lit our hearts
With wonder.

Why could it not have been otherwise?
As a star that falls thro' space,
Silvery-wingèd and swift,
So I would that our love had died
Exquisite in its flight
Through the dark.

But all this weeping and anguish
That sweeps thro' our aching hearts
Is useless as bitter flame;
And the holy fane of love—
The miracle of our joy—
Is but ashes and empty tears.

For three years you loved me;
When you took me I was Aphrodite
Fresh from the foam
And wonder of Youth awakening.

For you the beauty of my natal hour;
My kisses were your food;
I watched you grow golden
With the manna of my love!

Now from my body all the lustre,
All the splendor of the sea
And the freshness of youth awakening,
Have vanished forever.

For three years you loved me;
Now I am no more Venus rising from the sea;
I am a Parian marble, white and silent,
Awaiting your worship.

The great love that was not for her
Passed on, nor paused to see
The wistful eyes, the hands' vague stir,
The mouth's mute misery.

The little love she recked not of
Crept closer bit by bit,
Until for very lack of love,
She smiled and welcomed it.

NoThers to choose, to weigh and part
The greater from the less;
She only strove to fill a heart
That ached with emptiness.

The Old Love kissed you and went by,
Without the New Love stands
With roses red to crown your head,
New roses in his hands.”

I know not if she heard at all;
I only know she bent
Above the withered blooms she held,
As one too well content.

“In this your house grown desolate
The chills of Winter cling;
The New Love waits without your gates
To lead you back to Spring.”

I know not if she heard at all;
I only know she turned
Her hands above the empty hearth,
As though the ashes burned.

True love is water'd aye wi' tears,
It grows 'neath stormy skies,
It's fenced around wi' hopes and fears,
An' fann'd wi' heartfelt sighs.
Wi' chains o' gowd 'twill no be bound,
Oh! wha the heart can buy?
The titled glare, the warldling's care—
Even absence 'twill defy,
Even absence 'twill defy.

And time, that kills a' ither things,
His withering touch 'twill brave,
'Twill live in joy, 'twill live in grief,
'Twill live beyond the grave!
'Twill live, 'twill live though buried deep,
In true hearts' memorie—