 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
312
ZARIFA.
SUGGESTED BY A SPANISH STORY.
I cannot keep the tears back;
The tears, that should not flow
For one who wantonly could grieve
A heart that loved him so.
The tears, that should not flow
For one who wantonly could grieve
A heart that loved him so.
I cannot keep the tears back;
The bitter, bitter tears,
For the sweet memories of the past,
The fond, fond love of years.
The bitter, bitter tears,
For the sweet memories of the past,
The fond, fond love of years.
For many days I doubted—
Would God it still were so!
Would God there were a gleam of doubt
O'er all that now I know!
Would God it still were so!
Would God there were a gleam of doubt
O'er all that now I know!
For many days I doubted;
But when he soothed my grief
With fond assurances of truth,
Could I deny belief?
But when he soothed my grief
With fond assurances of truth,
Could I deny belief?
313
It is not that another lures
His loyal love from me;
Though well I know she's lovelier far
Than ever I could be.
His loyal love from me;
Though well I know she's lovelier far
Than ever I could be.
And well I know the little grace
That won his passion brief,
Is worn from my frail form and face,
By sickness and by grief.
That won his passion brief,
Is worn from my frail form and face,
By sickness and by grief.
No thought like this could make them flow,
These bitter, bitter tears,
O'er the dear memories of the past,
The fond, fond love of years.
These bitter, bitter tears,
O'er the dear memories of the past,
The fond, fond love of years.
Not this—though it has blighted
The one sweet hope I knew,
That if a world beside were false,
His generous heart was true.
The one sweet hope I knew,
That if a world beside were false,
His generous heart was true.
It is the unexplain'd distrust,
The studied, strange neglect;
Ah! only for a lover lost,
My pride these tears had check'd!
The studied, strange neglect;
Ah! only for a lover lost,
My pride these tears had check'd!
314
But with his love, his friendship fled,
And that I scarce can bear;
For I would be a friend to him,
Through every joy and care.
And that I scarce can bear;
For I would be a friend to him,
Through every joy and care.
And oh! I pine to see his face,
And hear his gentle tone;
And he is near—yet comes not here,—
And I must weep alone.
And hear his gentle tone;
And he is near—yet comes not here,—
And I must weep alone.
I would not blame him by a look;
For if I e'er had met
A more heroic heart than his,
I also might forget!
For if I e'er had met
A more heroic heart than his,
I also might forget!
But I cannot keep the tears back,
The bitter, bitter tears,
O'er all the memories of the past,
The fond, fond love of years.
The bitter, bitter tears,
O'er all the memories of the past,
The fond, fond love of years.
I cannot keep the tears back,
And yet they should not flow
For one who wantonly could wound
A heart that loved him so.
And yet they should not flow
For one who wantonly could wound
A heart that loved him so.
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |