THOU LOVEST ME NO MORE.
79
I count
The drops that, one by one, fall on my heart,
Turning its woman's softness into stone;
Yet, to that heart, all worn and changed, thou still
Art dear, and ever wilt be dear Some thoughts
Of thee, though all my future years will be
Like by-gone music lingering in my soul,
A sweet bird-carol heard in childhood's years,
Or like the lone funereal lamp that burns
Within the dark and solitary depths
Of Eastern tombs, forever shining on
Where all around is death and dull decay.
The drops that, one by one, fall on my heart,
Turning its woman's softness into stone;
Yet, to that heart, all worn and changed, thou still
Art dear, and ever wilt be dear Some thoughts
Of thee, though all my future years will be
Like by-gone music lingering in my soul,
A sweet bird-carol heard in childhood's years,
Or like the lone funereal lamp that burns
Within the dark and solitary depths
Of Eastern tombs, forever shining on
Where all around is death and dull decay.
