 | The Triumph of Love |  |
XII
Couldst thou but guess with what a burning thirstI who am cold as midnight, calm as death,
I who can smile when Fate has done his worst,
I who can make despair my being's breath,—
Couldst thou but guess with what a poignant pain
I long to hear what I have never heard,—
Long, with a hope which knows that hope is vain,
To hear thee speak one soft endearing word;—
Oh, then, since pity is the nurse of love,
I think thy gentle heart would come to mine,
And nestling near it like a murmuring dove,
Whisper “I love thee: take me: I am thine.”
Fond dream, avaunt! My thirst for love must burn,
For love's own sake, unquenched by love's return.
| The Triumph of Love | |