Poems (Chitwood)/I have Ceased to Love Thee
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I HAVE CEASED TO LOVE THEE.
No more the crimson rushes o'er thy brow,
Or the strong tide of love comes to my heart
In wild and gushing sweetness, when we meet;
No more do thoughts of thee wake feelings deep,—
Too deep for utterance,—and, no more canst thou,
With thy rich voice, call up that witching train
Of answering sympathies. Once thou hadst the power
To search the chambers of my soul, and bring
From its recess, its richest, rarest gems.
Unmoved I meet thee now, and thou dost smile
With careless lips, and speak in chilling tones;
And I can answer back, with tones as cold
Amid the busy crowd.
But when, apart
From their communion, thou dost come to me,
And thy low voice speaks in the silvery tones
Of "by-gone days;" thine eyes again call back
Their fond expression,—yet in vain, in vain.
As some faint, lingering spark, that slowly dies
'Mid the long night hours, so my lingering love
Faded and glimmered,—pale and paler still,—
Till, by and by, the last faint ray went out;
And no reviving hand can call it back
To light again, forever.
No: in vain;
Think not the passion-tones of other days;
Affection's smiles, or looks of perfect love,
Can now revive it—gone, forever gone!
And "I have ceased to love thee, evermore."
Thy letters, filled with love, endearing names
That thou hast often called me, strike no more
The harp strings of my lonely heart.
Ah! when
The flower of love is dead, affection's dew,
Or the soft sunlight coming from the heart,
Can bid its leaves expand no more. And yet,
Some fragrance oft may linger in its buds,
And so some memories of thee are still
Enfolded in my bosom; but the flower
Of holy, soul-enthralling love is dead.
Yes, it is dead; for I can wander now
Amid our trysting-spots, and list the songs
Of woodland music, and the streamlet's hum;
See the fair flowers—sweet miniatures of those
Thou once didst make "love's language,"—and my heart,
It would not call thee back.
Blame me not
That "I have ceased to love thee;" for some hand—
Some strange, mysterious hand, with stealthy grasp,
Unwound the tendrils of my clinging love,
And bade me to forget thee.
But blame me not;
For never was a worthier soul than thine
Seeking its kindred soul; but mine can give
Thine own no answer. Then, by all the past,—
The withered past,—ask not, again, that I
Should turn my spirit to thee—I can love
Thee never, never more.
Or the strong tide of love comes to my heart
In wild and gushing sweetness, when we meet;
No more do thoughts of thee wake feelings deep,—
Too deep for utterance,—and, no more canst thou,
With thy rich voice, call up that witching train
Of answering sympathies. Once thou hadst the power
To search the chambers of my soul, and bring
From its recess, its richest, rarest gems.
Unmoved I meet thee now, and thou dost smile
With careless lips, and speak in chilling tones;
And I can answer back, with tones as cold
Amid the busy crowd.
But when, apart
From their communion, thou dost come to me,
And thy low voice speaks in the silvery tones
Of "by-gone days;" thine eyes again call back
Their fond expression,—yet in vain, in vain.
As some faint, lingering spark, that slowly dies
'Mid the long night hours, so my lingering love
Faded and glimmered,—pale and paler still,—
Till, by and by, the last faint ray went out;
And no reviving hand can call it back
To light again, forever.
No: in vain;
Think not the passion-tones of other days;
Affection's smiles, or looks of perfect love,
Can now revive it—gone, forever gone!
And "I have ceased to love thee, evermore."
Thy letters, filled with love, endearing names
That thou hast often called me, strike no more
The harp strings of my lonely heart.
Ah! when
The flower of love is dead, affection's dew,
Or the soft sunlight coming from the heart,
Can bid its leaves expand no more. And yet,
Some fragrance oft may linger in its buds,
And so some memories of thee are still
Enfolded in my bosom; but the flower
Of holy, soul-enthralling love is dead.
Yes, it is dead; for I can wander now
Amid our trysting-spots, and list the songs
Of woodland music, and the streamlet's hum;
See the fair flowers—sweet miniatures of those
Thou once didst make "love's language,"—and my heart,
It would not call thee back.
Blame me not
That "I have ceased to love thee;" for some hand—
Some strange, mysterious hand, with stealthy grasp,
Unwound the tendrils of my clinging love,
And bade me to forget thee.
But blame me not;
For never was a worthier soul than thine
Seeking its kindred soul; but mine can give
Thine own no answer. Then, by all the past,—
The withered past,—ask not, again, that I
Should turn my spirit to thee—I can love
Thee never, never more.