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126
FROM A PLAY.
Alas! I think of you the livelong day,Plying my needle by the little stand,
And wish that we had never, never met,
Or I were dead, or you were married off—
Though that would kill me; I lay down my work,
And take the lute you gave me, but the strings
Have grown so tuneless that I cannot play;
I sing the favorite airs we used to sing,
The sweet old tunes we loved, and weep aloud!
I sought forgetfulness, and tried to-day
To read a chapter in the Holy Book;
I could not see a line, I only read
The solemn sonnets that you sent to me:
Nor can I pray as I was wont to do,
For you come in between me and the Lord,
And when I strive to lift my soul above,
127
And nights, when I am lying on my bed,
(I hope such thoughts are not unmaidenly!)
I think of you, and fall asleep, and dream
I am your own, your wedded, happy wife,—
But that can never, never be on earth!
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