Classic Poem

The pale sad face of her I wronged
Upbraids and follows me for ever:
The silent mouth grows many-tongued
To chide me; like some solemn river
Whose every wave hath found a tone
To reason of one truth alone.

She loved and was beloved again:
Why did I spoil her paradise?
Oh fleeting joy and lasting pain!
Oh folly of the heart and eyes!
I loved him more than all; and he,
He also hath forsaken me.

How have I wearied thee false friend?
Answer me, wherein have I erred
That so our happy loves should end?
Was it in thought, or deed, or word?
My soul lay bare to thee; disclose
The hidden fountain of my woes.

The Lady Moon is all too bright
Loftily seated in the skies.
They say that love once dimmed her light,
But surely such are poets' lies.
Who knoweth that she ever shone
On rosy cheeked Endymion?

Narcissus looked on his own shade,
And sickened for its loveliness.
Grasping, he saw its beauties fade
And stretch out into nothingness.
He died, rejecting his own good,
And Echo mourned in solitude.

But wherefore am I left alone?
What was my sin, to merit this?
Of all my friends there is not one
I slighted in my happiness,
My joyful days — oh, very white
One face pursues me day and night.

She loved him even as I love,
For she is dying for his sake.
Oh happy hope that looks above!
Oh happy heart that still can break!
I cannot die, though hope is dead;
He spurned me, and my heart but bled.

Therefore because she did not speak,
Being strong to die and make no sign;
Because her courage waxed not weak,
Strengthened with love as with new wine;
Because she stooped not while she bore,
He will return to her once more.

Perhaps he still may bring her health,
May call her colour back again;
While I shall pine in fame and wealth,
Owning that such as these are vain,
And envying her happier fate: —
And yet methinks it is too late.

Thou doubly false to her and me,
Boast of her death and my despair.
Boast if thou canst: on land, on sea,
I will be with thee everywhere;
My soul, let loose by mine own deed,
Shall make thee fear who would'st not heed.

Come, thou glad hour of vengeance, come,
When I may dog him evermore,
May track him to his distant home:
Yea, though he flee from shore to shore
I will be there, the pallid ghost
Of love and hope for ever lost.

Old memories shall make him sad,
And thin his hair and change his mien;
He shall remember what he had,
And dream of what he might have been,
Till he shall long for death; yet shrink
From the cold cup that I shall drink.

Who drinketh of that potent draught
May never set it down again.
What matter if one wept or laughed?
It killeth joy and numbeth pain:
It hath sleep for the sorrowful,
And for the sick a perfect lull.

A drowsy lull, a heavy sleep:
Haply it may give such to me:
And if my grave place were dug deep
Beneath the cold earth, verily
Such quietness I would not break,
Not for my cherished vengeance' sake.

Bring me the cup: behold, I choose
For all my portion nothingness.
Bring me the cup: I would not lose
One drop of its forgetfulness.
On the grave brink I turn and think
Of thee, before I stoop to drink.

When the glad Summer time is past
Shalt thou not weary of thy life
And turn to seek that home at last
Where never enters fear nor strife?
Yea, at length, in the Autumn weather,
Shall not we twain repose together?