Poems (Hoffman)/The Woman to Her False Lover
THE WOMAN TO HER FALSE LOVER
To-day I mourn above thy new-made graveAs one bereft of hope,Choke back my sobs and struggle to be brave,And blind through darkness grope.
I know you live in health and vigor yetCalled by the very name,Wearing the form and face I'll ne'er forgetOf my dead friend, but you are not the same.
No, not the same; the friend I loved was freeFrom treachery, and true;Too noble for deceit and falsity,And what of you?
My friend had faults, but they were human faultsFrom which none here are free;Yours are base crimes at which my soul revoltsInstinctively.
Oh, to awake from out this dream of madness,And know that it has only been a dream;A dark, dark night that fled before the gladnessOf morn's untroubled beam!
To look once more into your eyes and listen,Once more to hear your voice as from the dust;To see one morning sunbeam dance and glistenUndarkened by distrust.
For oh! your falsity has rendered dullerAll Nature's beauties with its stunning pain;Robbed sky and sea and landscape of their color,Lowered Nature's music to a minor strain.
Could you but know one half the bitter troubleThat all my soul in ceaseless anguish grieves,Could you but see the hopeless chaff and stubbleOf my life's golden sheaves;
Could you but see them as I see them dailyA dreadful wreck I strive to rise above;You nevermore would win to trample gailyA woman's deathless love.
Then come not back with well-learned look and tone,Caprice or impulse led,You are a stranger I have never known—The friend I loved is dead.
So blind, so ignorant are we,Like children at their play;We toss a pebble in the seaAnd throw a gem away.
We strew bright blossoms in the sunBy careless impulse led,And when our eager quest is doneCome back to find them dead.
Then hold life's precious things with careAnd prize them at their worth;Thou hast ten million stones to spare,Thy gems are few, oh earth!
There is a lesson often learnedIn life's long road too late,And then upon the Memory burnedWith the iron hand of Fate.
'Tis this: To early count the costAnd value at their worth,Before by careless haste are lostThe brightest things of earth.