 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
320
XV. THE HEART KNOWETH ITS OWN BITTERNESS.
We sat together underneath a lime,Whose netted branches wove an emerald night;
And in short sentences—in low and light
Whispers—recalled the stories of old time:
Until some word, I know not what, some rhyme
Dragged out a hidden grief, that lived—in spite
Of creeping lichen years—such years as might
Well humble all that once was thought sublime.
My grief it was, and will be: she but sees
A strangeness which she cannot understand;
A nameless tower overgrown with trees;
A heap of stones encumbering the land;
A hearth now haunted by the wintry breeze,
Long, long ago, by love and fancy fanned.
January 19, 1858.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |