 | [Afterthought, in] Love's calendar, lays of the Hudson, and other poems |  |
191
AFTERTHOUGHT.
What though I sigh to think that after all
'Twas half some erring fancy of the mind,
Half that illusion which they ‘love’ miscall
Whose sense dreams not of sentiment refined:
They to whom ne'er that gush of soul was given
Which melts the heart to mould it but for Heaven—
'Twas half some erring fancy of the mind,
Half that illusion which they ‘love’ miscall
Whose sense dreams not of sentiment refined:
They to whom ne'er that gush of soul was given
Which melts the heart to mould it but for Heaven—
What though to think it was but this perchance
Prompts the half-wistful—half-disdainful sigh;
Makes the fond tone—the tear—the tender glance
Seem less than valueless in memory:
Still would I rather my love ran to waste
Than she I love ‘love's bitterness’ should taste.
Prompts the half-wistful—half-disdainful sigh;
Makes the fond tone—the tear—the tender glance
Seem less than valueless in memory:
Still would I rather my love ran to waste
Than she I love ‘love's bitterness’ should taste.
| [Afterthought, in] Love's calendar, lays of the Hudson, and other poems | |