Far up shines the house, and beneath flows the river:
Here lean, my head, on this cold balustrade!
Ere he come,—ere the boat by the shining-branched border
Of dark elms shoot round, dropping down the proud stream,—
Let me pause, let me strive, in myself make some order,
Ere their boat-music sound, ere their broidered flags gleam.
Last night we stood earnestly talking together:
She entered—that moment his eyes turned from me!
Fastened on her dark hair, and her wreath of white heather.
As yesterday was, so to-morrow will be.
Their love, let me know, must grow strong and yet stronger,
Their passion burn more, ere it ceases to burn.
They must love—while they must! but the hearts that love longer
Are rare—ah! most loves but flow once, and return.
I shall suffer—but they will outlive their affection;
I shall weep—but their love will be cooling; and he,
As he drifts to fatigue, discontent, and dejection,
Will be brought, thou poor heart, how much nearer to thee!
For cold is his eye to mere beauty, who, breaking
