Before this teased, o'er-labored heart
Forever leaves its vain employ,
Dead to its deep habitual smart,
And dead to hopes of future joy.
II. TOO LATE.
Each on his own strict line we move,
And some find death ere they find love;
So far apart their lives are thrown
From the twin soul that halves their own.
And sometimes, by still harder fate,
The lovers meet, but meet too late.
—Thy heart is mine! True, true! ah, true!
—Then, love, thy hand! Ah, no! adieu!
III. SEPARATION.
Stop! not to me, at this bitter departing,
Speak of the sure consolations of time!
Fresh be the wound, still-renewed be its smarting,
So but thy image endure in its prime!
But if the steadfast commandment of Nature
Wills that remembrance should always decay;
If the loved form and the deep-cherished feature
Must, when unseen, from the soul fade away,—
Me let no half-effaced memories cumber;
Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee!
Deep be the darkness, and still be the slumber;
Dead be the past and its phantoms to me!
Then, when we meet, and thy look strays toward me,
Scanning my face and the changes wrought there;
Who, let me say, is this stranger regards me,
With the gray eyes, and the lovely brown hair?
