I was not happy—Love forbade
Peace by its feverish restlessness;
But this was sweet, and then I had
Hope, which relies on happiness.
I need not say how, one by one,
Love's flowers have dropp'd from off Love's chain;
Enough to say that they are gone,
And that they cannot bloom again.
I know not what the pangs may be
That hearts betray'd or slighted prove—
I speak but of the misery
That waits on fond and mutual love.
The torture of an absent hour,
When doubts mock Reason's faint control:—
’Tis fearful thinking of the power
Another holds upon our soul!
To think another has in thrall
All of life's best and dearest part—
Our hopes, affections, trusted all
To that frail bark—the human heart.
To yield thus to another's reign;—
To live but in another's breath—
To double all life's powers of pain—
To die twice in another's death;
While these things present to me seem,
And what can now the past restore,
Love as I may, yet I can dream
Of happiness in Love no more. L. E. L.
