The Poetry of Real Life A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison |
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ON ONE “LOVED NOT WISELY, BUT TOO WELL.” |
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 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
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ON ONE “LOVED NOT WISELY, BUT TOO WELL.”
Oh! would that I had never seen,
Or seen thee in a different guise,
Then might the love I feel have been
A bliss, and not a sacrifice.
Or seen thee in a different guise,
Then might the love I feel have been
A bliss, and not a sacrifice.
Alas! and must it then be so,
That all I dreamt I find in thee,
Find but to lose, and henceforth know,
That all is still a dream to me?
That all I dreamt I find in thee,
Find but to lose, and henceforth know,
That all is still a dream to me?
And yet no longer even that—
For, oh! I now can dream no more,
Still must I think of thee, and at
The thought both dream and truth deplore!
For, oh! I now can dream no more,
Still must I think of thee, and at
The thought both dream and truth deplore!
When first I saw thee, like a star,
I could have knelt and worshipp'd thee,
Gazed on thy brightness from afar,
Too blessed but in its reach to be!
I could have knelt and worshipp'd thee,
Gazed on thy brightness from afar,
Too blessed but in its reach to be!
But now I turn my head away,
Whilst tears unbidden fill mine eyes,
To think that star should go astray,
From its bright pathway in the skies.
Whilst tears unbidden fill mine eyes,
To think that star should go astray,
From its bright pathway in the skies.
That star, which, in approachless light,
Should have shed beauty on the earth,
Has set to me, ere well in sight,
And scarce I trace its place of birth!
Should have shed beauty on the earth,
Has set to me, ere well in sight,
And scarce I trace its place of birth!
Yet will I hope that it is but
A cloud which hides it from my view,
And that, though for a moment shut
From sight, its inward light burns true,
A cloud which hides it from my view,
And that, though for a moment shut
From sight, its inward light burns true,
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I could have loved thee as few love!
And oh! I love, will love, thee yet—
Yet still, O grief all griefs above,
Where most I love, I should forget!
And oh! I love, will love, thee yet—
Yet still, O grief all griefs above,
Where most I love, I should forget!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |