Classic Poem

The faith of years is broken,
The fate of years is spoken,
Years past, and years to come;
I pity and I scorn thee,
I would not now adorn me
For thy false bridal home.

Yet thou, perfidious wooer,
Thou yet mayst be the ruer,
For thou mayst meet with one
Who will not love thee really,
But cast kind glances merely
That thou mayst be undone.

Soft eyes, and dark, and flashing,
Thy hopes may yet be dashing,
Thou yet mayst be deceived;
And then think on her sadly,
Whom once thou grievedst gladly,
Ere thou thyself wast grieved.

And if despair should seize thee,
And urge thee to release thee
From weariness and life,
Oh! think on her who'll languish,
Bearing the bitter anguish
Of a heart's bitter strife.

For, though I may not love thee,
Though calm as heaven above me,
My thoughts of thee must be,
I cannot break so lightly
The chain that bound me tightly,
Once bound my soul to thee