 | Poems (1905) |  |
510
[HOPELESS LOVE.]
Why wilt thou thus our Hopes defeat,
My too impatient, pleading heart?
Why shew in us such Joy to meet,
Yet fear in her 'tis Joy to part?
My too impatient, pleading heart?
Why shew in us such Joy to meet,
Yet fear in her 'tis Joy to part?
For what has our Impatience gain'd,
But more to fear the fate to come;
While, half-respected, half-disdain'd,
We trembling wait the dreaded Doom?
But more to fear the fate to come;
While, half-respected, half-disdain'd,
We trembling wait the dreaded Doom?
Can'st thou support that grievous State
That Hearts like thee too often prove,
The darkest, the severest Fate—
An endless, joyless, hopeless Love?—
That Hearts like thee too often prove,
The darkest, the severest Fate—
An endless, joyless, hopeless Love?—
She may indeed with pitying Smile
The pain she causes kindly meet;
May sweetly soothe our Woes awhile,
And hold us fast in Bondage sweet.
The pain she causes kindly meet;
May sweetly soothe our Woes awhile,
And hold us fast in Bondage sweet.
May yield the Hand, may drop the Tear,
And with Reproof Compassion blend—
Then, with harsh Looks and Words severe,
May drop into the distant Friend.
And with Reproof Compassion blend—
Then, with harsh Looks and Words severe,
May drop into the distant Friend.
For then some happier Man may wake
The slumbering Wish, the new Desire;
When she the offer'd Hand may take
And give the Heart his prayers require.
The slumbering Wish, the new Desire;
When she the offer'd Hand may take
And give the Heart his prayers require.
And then what Pangs wilt thou endure,
When all the Friendship she can spare
Will grieve the Wound it cannot cure,
And mock the Love it will not share;
When all the Friendship she can spare
Will grieve the Wound it cannot cure,
And mock the Love it will not share;
While his triumphant Looks convey
The proud Delight that fills his breast,
And those dear Eyes themselves betray
The Thoughts not yet by Words confest.
The proud Delight that fills his breast,
And those dear Eyes themselves betray
The Thoughts not yet by Words confest.
O Jealousy, severest Ill
That suffering Man is doom'd to know,
That so the Root of Joy can kill
The fruit again can never Grow!
That suffering Man is doom'd to know,
That so the Root of Joy can kill
The fruit again can never Grow!
Yet still there is a Way to heal
[All that] I suffer, dread, deplore;
Since, what is worse than Death to feel,
In Death will soon be felt no more.
[All that] I suffer, dread, deplore;
Since, what is worse than Death to feel,
In Death will soon be felt no more.
| Poems (1905) | |