Poems (Hooper)/An Old Story

by Lucy Hamilton Hooper

For works with similar titles, see An Old Story.

AN OLD STORY.

I held her on her wedding-day
 Close folded to my breast,
And kisses such as mothers give,
 Upon her brow I pressed.
Fond were the words I whispered low,
 Love lent the tears I shed;
I loosed her from that loving clasp,
 Nor knew my friend was dead.

Dead—dead to me! She comes no more
 To lay her cheek to mine,
And whisper softly, "Friend beloved,
 Let half my joys be thine."
No more above my yearning heart
 Shall all her tears be shed;
Well have I loved and sadly lost—
 The friend I loved is dead!

One seeks me now who wears her form—
 The acquaintance of a day;
In idle speech and careless mirth
 Her visits pass away.
We talk of operas and balls,
 And what the world has said—
Back to my heart I press the cry,
 "My friend—my friend is dead!"

Lo, I shall greet mine other dead
 In the eternal skies,
But this lost love I shall regain
 Not e'en in Paradise.
From the bright gates an echo comes
 Of words my soul hath said,
"E'en here, where Death dwells not, to thee
 The friend thou lov'dst is dead."

So in the haunts of Memory
 A sacred grave I keep;
I only know what moulders there,
 I only o'er it weep.
O'er it my eyes have shed sad tears,
 O'er it my heart has bled:
O worse than death is death in life—
 The friend I loved is dead!