AGNES.
It is his hand—it is his words—
Too well I know the scroll,
Whose style, whose order, and whose shape
Are treasured in my soul.
For months I only asked to see
One line of his, in vain;
Alas ! its presence brings to me
But only added pain.
A fearful thing, the granted wish—
The very shape it takes,
By some strange mockery of our hope,
Another misery makes.
Day after day, the hour went by,
And never letter came;
Or rather, every letter else
But that which bore his name.
I wearied Heaven with my prayers,
I wasted life with tears,
While every morning brought me hopes,
And every evening fears.
How often have I said to friends,
Who sought to warn or cheer,
And told the folly of a love,
So desperate and so dear.
How often have I said, I know
The madness of the dream,
That flings its fate on one frail bark,
Alone on life’s dark stream.
That knows one only hope on earth,
One hope in heaven above,
That asketh not for happiness,
And only asks for love.
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