Poems (Hinxman)/The Complaint
THE COMPLAINT.
The backward flower may yet be wooed to blow,—The dying flame may yet be set aglow,—The truant bird be lured—the fickle heartMay be won back by spell of love's sweet art.
But thou, so kind, so constant, yet so cold,What spell for thee shall all love's store unfold?How shall it mend where there is nought to blame?Where chiding and where tears are put to shame?
For who may chide or weep where all is sure?Thou art a pillar at whose side secureThy love may stand; nay, but her foolish breastSought rather a soft cushion where to rest.
Yet, be what else thou may'st, still be thou mine,And this veiled love may yet break forth and shine,Bathing my happy heart in tender light:The early grey turns oft to noonday bright,While clouds will gather on the summer morn,And the poor hearts it smiled on, sit forlorn.