Poems (Chitwood)/I have Ceased to Love Thee
I HAVE CEASED TO LOVE THEE.
No more the crimson rushes o'er thy brow,Or the strong tide of love comes to my heartIn 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 trainOf answering sympathies. Once thou hadst the powerTo search the chambers of my soul, and bringFrom its recess, its richest, rarest gems.Unmoved I meet thee now, and thou dost smileWith careless lips, and speak in chilling tones;And I can answer back, with tones as coldAmid the busy crowd.Amid the busy crowd.But when, apartFrom their communion, thou dost come to me,And thy low voice speaks in the silvery tonesOf "by-gone days;" thine eyes again call backTheir fond expression,—yet in vain, in vain.As some faint, lingering spark, that slowly dies 'Mid the long night hours, so my lingering loveFaded and glimmered,—pale and paler still,—Till, by and by, the last faint ray went out;And no reviving hand can call it backTo light again, forever.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 namesThat thou hast often called me, strike no moreThe harp strings of my lonely heart.The harp strings of my lonely heart.Ah! whenThe 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 stillEnfolded in my bosom; but the flowerOf holy, soul-enthralling love is dead.Yes, it is dead; for I can wander nowAmid our trysting-spots, and list the songsOf woodland music, and the streamlet's hum;See the fair flowers—sweet miniatures of thoseThou once didst make "love's language,"—and my heart,It would not call thee back.It would not call thee back.Blame me notThat "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.And bade me to forget thee.But blame me not;For never was a worthier soul than thineSeeking its kindred soul; but mine can giveThine own no answer. Then, by all the past,—The withered past,—ask not, again, that IShould turn my spirit to thee—I can loveThee never, never more.