Poems by Hartley Coleridge With a Memoir of his Life by his Brother. In Two Volumes |
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A SONG WITHOUT A TUNE. |
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 | Poems by Hartley Coleridge |  |
228
A SONG WITHOUT A TUNE.
A song without a tune
I made in the month of June,
Eighteen hundred and forty-eight;
'Tis right to be exact in date.
I made in the month of June,
Eighteen hundred and forty-eight;
'Tis right to be exact in date.
Sweet lassy, parted we have been
A full twelvemonth and more,
And many a change the world has seen,
And many a heart been sore.
Kings that were mighty monarchs then
Are not, or nothing are but men.
A full twelvemonth and more,
And many a change the world has seen,
And many a heart been sore.
Kings that were mighty monarchs then
Are not, or nothing are but men.
And many a maid that loved a man
Of wealth and high degree
Must try to love him, if she can,
In perilous poverty.
For in the wild creed of the time,
To have been rich is deem'd a crime.
Of wealth and high degree
Must try to love him, if she can,
In perilous poverty.
For in the wild creed of the time,
To have been rich is deem'd a crime.
229
We were not rich, we were not kings,
We are just where we were;
No hope has borne us on its wings,
To drop us in despair.
I might forget an hour had pass'd
Since the sweet hour I saw thee last,
We are just where we were;
No hope has borne us on its wings,
To drop us in despair.
I might forget an hour had pass'd
Since the sweet hour I saw thee last,
Thou art so very like the maid
I saw twelve months ago;
And yet almost I am afraid
Thou dost not feel it so.
Thou art, my love, the same to me,
But am I quite the same to thee?
I saw twelve months ago;
And yet almost I am afraid
Thou dost not feel it so.
Thou art, my love, the same to me,
But am I quite the same to thee?
The lines are deeper on my brow,
The corners of my eyes
Are quaintly netted, I allow,
As wings of dragon flies;
My cheek the red and yellow dapple,
Much like a last year's russet apple.
The corners of my eyes
Are quaintly netted, I allow,
As wings of dragon flies;
My cheek the red and yellow dapple,
Much like a last year's russet apple.
A year is nothing to a man
That forty years hath seen;
But, ah! it is no little span,
'Twixt fifteen and sixteen.
Now I perceive a year hath flown,
And thou almost a woman grown.
That forty years hath seen;
But, ah! it is no little span,
'Twixt fifteen and sixteen.
230
And thou almost a woman grown.
A something sure hath cross'd thy view,
Or perhaps some lady sage
Hath told what to thy hopes is due,
And to thy stately age:
Yet thou hast not forgot me—no;
But thou would'st very fain do so.
Or perhaps some lady sage
Hath told what to thy hopes is due,
And to thy stately age:
Yet thou hast not forgot me—no;
But thou would'st very fain do so.
Farewell! I will not vex thee more,—
I would not be a blot
On thy fair page, a fretting sore,
An ever-tangled knot.
What matter what thou think'st on me,
While thy young heart is glad and free.
I would not be a blot
On thy fair page, a fretting sore,
An ever-tangled knot.
What matter what thou think'st on me,
While thy young heart is glad and free.
| Poems by Hartley Coleridge | |