 | The Triangular Society |  |
86
HOW STRANGE IT WILL BE.
How strange it will be, love—how strange, when we two
Shall be what all lovers become,
When love is no longer absorbingly new;—
Not vulgarly faithless—not really untrue,
But cool and accustomed; you, ceasing to woo,
Grown thoughtless of me, and I careless of you,—
Our pet names grown rusty with nothing to do—
Love's bright web unravelled, and rent, and worn through,
And life's loom left empty—O, hum!
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
Shall be what all lovers become,
When love is no longer absorbingly new;—
Not vulgarly faithless—not really untrue,
But cool and accustomed; you, ceasing to woo,
Grown thoughtless of me, and I careless of you,—
87
Love's bright web unravelled, and rent, and worn through,
And life's loom left empty—O, hum!
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
How strange it will be when the witchery goes
Which makes me seem lovely to-day;
When your thought of me loses its tint-of-the-rose—
When every day serves some new fault to disclose,
When you criticise sharply, eyes, chin, mouth and nose,
And wonder you could for a moment suppose
I was out of the commonplace way;
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
Which makes me seem lovely to-day;
When your thought of me loses its tint-of-the-rose—
When every day serves some new fault to disclose,
When you criticise sharply, eyes, chin, mouth and nose,
And wonder you could for a moment suppose
I was out of the commonplace way;
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
How strange it will be, love—how strange, when we meet
With just a chill touch of the hand!
When my pulses no longer delightedly beat
At the thought of your coming—the sound of your feet,—
When I watch not your going, far down the long street,
When your dear, loving voice, now so thrillingly sweet,
Grows harsh in reproach or command;
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
With just a chill touch of the hand!
When my pulses no longer delightedly beat
At the thought of your coming—the sound of your feet,—
When I watch not your going, far down the long street,
When your dear, loving voice, now so thrillingly sweet,
Grows harsh in reproach or command;
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
How strange it will be when we willingly stay
Divided the weary day through!
Or keeping remotely apart as we may,
Sit chilly and silent, with nothing to say,
Or coolly converse on the news of the day,
In a wearisome, old-married-folks sort of way!
I shrink from the picture,—don't you?
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
Divided the weary day through!
Or keeping remotely apart as we may,
Sit chilly and silent, with nothing to say,
Or coolly converse on the news of the day,
In a wearisome, old-married-folks sort of way!
I shrink from the picture,—don't you?
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
88
Dear love, if our hearts do grow torpid and old,
As so many others have done—
If we let our love perish with hunger and cold,
If we dim all life's diamonds, and tarnish its gold,
If we choose to live wretched, and die unconsoled,
'T will be strangest of all things that ever were told
As happening under the sun!
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
As so many others have done—
If we let our love perish with hunger and cold,
If we dim all life's diamonds, and tarnish its gold,
If we choose to live wretched, and die unconsoled,
'T will be strangest of all things that ever were told
As happening under the sun!
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
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