 | The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton |  |
41
PAST FRIENDSHIP.
We that were friends, yet are not now,
We that must daily meet
With ready words and courteous bow,
Acquaintance of the street;
We must not scorn the holy past,
We must remember still
To honour feelings that outlast
The reason and the will.
We that must daily meet
With ready words and courteous bow,
Acquaintance of the street;
We must not scorn the holy past,
We must remember still
To honour feelings that outlast
The reason and the will.
I might reprove thy broken faith,
I might recall the time
When thou wert chartered mine till death,
Through every fate and clime;
When every letter was a vow,
And fancy was not free
To dream of ended love; and thou
Wouldst say the same of me.
I might recall the time
When thou wert chartered mine till death,
Through every fate and clime;
When every letter was a vow,
And fancy was not free
To dream of ended love; and thou
Wouldst say the same of me.
No, no, 'tis not for us to trim
The balance of our wrongs,
Enough to leave remorse to him
To whom remorse belongs!
Let our dead friendship be to us
A desecrated name,
Unutterable, mysterious,
A sorrow and a shame.
The balance of our wrongs,
Enough to leave remorse to him
To whom remorse belongs!
42
A desecrated name,
Unutterable, mysterious,
A sorrow and a shame.
A sorrow that two souls which grew
Encased in mutual bliss,
Should wander, callous strangers, through
So cold a world as this!
A shame that we, whose hearts had earned
For life an early heaven,
Should be like angels self-returned
To Death, when once forgiven!
Encased in mutual bliss,
Should wander, callous strangers, through
So cold a world as this!
A shame that we, whose hearts had earned
For life an early heaven,
Should be like angels self-returned
To Death, when once forgiven!
Let us remain as living signs,
Where they that run may read
Pain and disgrace in many lines,
As of a loss indeed;
That of our fellows any who
The prize of love have won
May tremble at the thought to do
The thing that we have done!
Where they that run may read
Pain and disgrace in many lines,
As of a loss indeed;
That of our fellows any who
The prize of love have won
May tremble at the thought to do
The thing that we have done!
1844.
| The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton | |