 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
THE FORSAKEN.
“The cure is bitterer still.”
O for one hour, one blissful hour
Like those my young heart knew,
When all my dreams of future joy
From love their coloring drew;
I deemed affection then might be
The very life of life to me:
Alas! 'twas source of every ill,
But yet, “The cure is bitterer still.”
Like those my young heart knew,
When all my dreams of future joy
From love their coloring drew;
I deemed affection then might be
The very life of life to me:
Alas! 'twas source of every ill,
But yet, “The cure is bitterer still.”
I loved! O, fearful is the strength
Of woman's love, combined
With all the spirit's high-wrought powers,
The energies of mind:
Such deep devotedness as feels
The Indian when he humbly kneels
Before his idol's car to meet
A death of rapture at his feet—
Such love was mine, though fraught with ill;
“The cure—the cure is bitterer still.”
Of woman's love, combined
With all the spirit's high-wrought powers,
The energies of mind:
Such deep devotedness as feels
The Indian when he humbly kneels
Before his idol's car to meet
A death of rapture at his feet—
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“The cure—the cure is bitterer still.”
O grief beyond all other griefs!
To feel the slow decay
Of love and hope within the heart,
Ere youth be past away:
To know that life must henceforth be
A voyage o'er a tideless sea,
No ebb or flow of hopes and fears
To vary the dull waste of years;
O! love may be life's chiefest ill,
But ah! “The cure is bitterer still.”
To feel the slow decay
Of love and hope within the heart,
Ere youth be past away:
To know that life must henceforth be
A voyage o'er a tideless sea,
No ebb or flow of hopes and fears
To vary the dull waste of years;
O! love may be life's chiefest ill,
But ah! “The cure is bitterer still.”
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |