Poems (Welby)/The Broken-Hearted
For works with similar titles, see The Broken-Hearted.
THE BROKEN-HEARTED.
She faded slowly 'mid unwithering roses;
In the first flush of youth, her heart had been
Bright as a full bud when it first discloses
Its summer tints beneath its hood of green;
For there was one to whom her heart she'd given,
Yet she had won no vow of love from him,
And shadows gathered o'er her sunny heaven
Till e'en the lingering star of hope grew dim.
In the first flush of youth, her heart had been
Bright as a full bud when it first discloses
Its summer tints beneath its hood of green;
For there was one to whom her heart she'd given,
Yet she had won no vow of love from him,
And shadows gathered o'er her sunny heaven
Till e'en the lingering star of hope grew dim.
Life had to her been sweet as music measures,
That steal forth from a lute on some faint breeze,
And her sweet thoughts were like uncounted treasures,
That cluster in the depths of trembling seas;
There played around her lip a smile so winning,
And in her eye there shone such tenderness,
That none could look on her and dream of sinning,
She was so pure in virgin loveliness.
That steal forth from a lute on some faint breeze,
And her sweet thoughts were like uncounted treasures,
That cluster in the depths of trembling seas;
There played around her lip a smile so winning,
And in her eye there shone such tenderness,
That none could look on her and dream of sinning,
She was so pure in virgin loveliness.
'T was when soft summer winds were lightly stirring,
One golden eve in bright mid-summer time,
That first, with honeyed words and looks endearing,
He stole within her path in manhood's prime;
And when sweet jasmine vines their wreaths were looping
Around her bower, beneath their fragrant shade
With her fair head upon his bosom drooping,
She'd list entranced to all the loved one said.
One golden eve in bright mid-summer time,
That first, with honeyed words and looks endearing,
He stole within her path in manhood's prime;
And when sweet jasmine vines their wreaths were looping
Around her bower, beneath their fragrant shade
With her fair head upon his bosom drooping,
She'd list entranced to all the loved one said.
And at the hour, when silvery dew-drops slumbered
Upon the whispering grass and young rose-leaves,
With restless heart each quiet star she numbered,
For he would seek her side at starry eves;
And though beneath his glance her heart would quiver,
And her voice, when to him she spoke or sung,
Seemed like the sad moan of a low-voiced river,
Still in his presence tremblingly she hung.
Upon the whispering grass and young rose-leaves,
With restless heart each quiet star she numbered,
For he would seek her side at starry eves;
And though beneath his glance her heart would quiver,
And her voice, when to him she spoke or sung,
Seemed like the sad moan of a low-voiced river,
Still in his presence tremblingly she hung.
But when she found he loved her as a brother
Would love a gentle sister, with deep art
She tried each wild and wayward thought to smother,
But 't was a bitter task—it broke her heart;
For, though her red lips woke a strain of sadness,
A tear into her hazel eye would spring,
And in its depths there shone a dreamy sadness,
That told of deep distress and sorrowing.
Would love a gentle sister, with deep art
She tried each wild and wayward thought to smother,
But 't was a bitter task—it broke her heart;
For, though her red lips woke a strain of sadness,
A tear into her hazel eye would spring,
And in its depths there shone a dreamy sadness,
That told of deep distress and sorrowing.
But, when far, far away o'er dell and mountain,
He left her side to seek a distant land,
Love still hung weeping over Memory's fountain,
And her young brow drooped on her pale thin hand;
And when the peeping flowers of spring were wreathing,
And the soft air was burdened with perfume,
Life's last sad music on her lip was breathing,
And she was lightly gathered to the tomb.
He left her side to seek a distant land,
Love still hung weeping over Memory's fountain,
And her young brow drooped on her pale thin hand;
And when the peeping flowers of spring were wreathing,
And the soft air was burdened with perfume,
Life's last sad music on her lip was breathing,
And she was lightly gathered to the tomb.