 | Idyls and Songs |  |
155
LXXII. IN DESIDERIUM.
‘O last Regret—Regret can die.’
You ask me why, when Hope long since
Has own'd herself but folly,
I still retain this deep-grooved chain
Of cankering melancholy.
Has own'd herself but folly,
I still retain this deep-grooved chain
Of cankering melancholy.
And I might say we are not free
Our own fond love to master:
That we confess her nothingness,
Yet cling to Hope the faster.
Our own fond love to master:
That we confess her nothingness,
Yet cling to Hope the faster.
But Hope's sweet eyes are closed with dust,
Blind to their own ‘to-morrow’:
And on the heart Time works his part:
And 'tis for that we sorrow.
Blind to their own ‘to-morrow’:
And on the heart Time works his part:
And 'tis for that we sorrow.
'Tis not alone the shrine of grief
That his pale hand defaces:
Time's icy breath, a living death,
Love's very grave effaces.
That his pale hand defaces:
Time's icy breath, a living death,
Love's very grave effaces.
O thrice accurst—O worse than worst—
Past all despair's conceiving,
When 'tis not for the loss we grieve,
But for the loss of grieving!
Past all despair's conceiving,
When 'tis not for the loss we grieve,
But for the loss of grieving!
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