Poems (Welby)/I Never Have Loved Thee
I NEVER HAVE LOVED THEE.
I never have loved thee; yet, strange though it be,
So soft are the feelings I cherish for thee,
That the wildest of passions could never impart
More joy to my soul, or more bliss to my heart;
They come o'er my breast in my happiest hours,
They come like the south wind, that ruffles the flowers—
A thrilling of softness, a thrilling of bliss—
Say, is there no name for a passion like this?
So soft are the feelings I cherish for thee,
That the wildest of passions could never impart
More joy to my soul, or more bliss to my heart;
They come o'er my breast in my happiest hours,
They come like the south wind, that ruffles the flowers—
A thrilling of softness, a thrilling of bliss—
Say, is there no name for a passion like this?
It cannot be friendship, it cannot be love;
Yet I know the sweet feeling descends from above;
For it takes from my bosom no portion of ease,
Yet adds all the raptures, the pleasures of these;
For so soft the emotion my spirit has nursed,
It is warm as the last, and more pure than the first;
For my heart when near thine grows as soft as a dove,
Yet it cannot be friendship, it cannot be love.
Yet I know the sweet feeling descends from above;
For it takes from my bosom no portion of ease,
Yet adds all the raptures, the pleasures of these;
For so soft the emotion my spirit has nursed,
It is warm as the last, and more pure than the first;
For my heart when near thine grows as soft as a dove,
Yet it cannot be friendship, it cannot be love.
I know we must part, yet, united in soul,
Our thoughts, like one current, together will roll,
And O! should my soul be the first to ascend,
When an angel in heaven I'll plead for my friend;
Yet sometimes I think when my young life is o'er,
And my voice that hath thrilled thee, can thrill thee no more,
That my spirit will steal from its mansion of bliss
To lie on thy bosom, and guard thee in this.
Our thoughts, like one current, together will roll,
And O! should my soul be the first to ascend,
When an angel in heaven I'll plead for my friend;
Yet sometimes I think when my young life is o'er,
And my voice that hath thrilled thee, can thrill thee no more,
That my spirit will steal from its mansion of bliss
To lie on thy bosom, and guard thee in this.
Thou may'st whisper farewell, but thou canst not depart—
I hold thee too close in the folds of my heart;
And that full heart is deeper than aught else can be,
Unless 't is the feeling I cherish for thee.
Thou canst not escape, for though wide be thy bound,
Fond memories like sentinels guard thee around—
Sweet watchers! they'll keep each intruder away,
And hold thee my captive by night and by day.
I hold thee too close in the folds of my heart;
And that full heart is deeper than aught else can be,
Unless 't is the feeling I cherish for thee.
Thou canst not escape, for though wide be thy bound,
Fond memories like sentinels guard thee around—
Sweet watchers! they'll keep each intruder away,
And hold thee my captive by night and by day.
'T were almost too sweet for such bosoms as ours
To die the calm death of the innocent flowers;
Yet, ah! if the angels will answer my prayers.
The close of our lives will be lovely as theirs—
And, O! if the death-pangs our bosoms must rend,
If they'll mingle my spirit with that of my friend,
I care not how soon they may sever earth's ties,
For, though parted on earth, we'll be linked in the skies.
To die the calm death of the innocent flowers;
Yet, ah! if the angels will answer my prayers.
The close of our lives will be lovely as theirs—
And, O! if the death-pangs our bosoms must rend,
If they'll mingle my spirit with that of my friend,
I care not how soon they may sever earth's ties,
For, though parted on earth, we'll be linked in the skies.