love poem

They tell me that my trusting heart
Thy fondness is deceived in;
They say that thou all faithless art
Whom I so well believed in!
I heed not, reck not, what they say
So earnestly about thee;
I'd rather trust my soul away
Than for one moment doubt thee.

Like mine thy youth was early lost;
Thy vows too rashly plighted;
Thy budding life by wintry frost
Of grief untimely, blighted.
Devotion is most deep and pure
In souls by sorrow shaded,
And love like ours will still endure

Take back then thy pledges, — and peace to that heart
In which faith like a shadow can come and depart!
From which love, that seems cherished most fondly to-day,
Is cast, without grieving, to-morrow away.
Such a heart it may sadden mine own to resign,
But it never was mated to mingle with mine.
Love another! Nay, shrink not — more wisely thou wilt
If truth to thy plighted in thine eyes be guilt.

I claim not, I ask not one thought in thy breast
While that thought brings misgiving and doubt to the rest.

They say that thou art alter'd, Amy,
They say that thou no more
Dost keep within thy bosom, Amy,
The faith that once it wore;

They tell me that another now
Doth thy young heart assail;
They tell me, Amy, too, that thou
Dost smile on his love tale.

But I — I heed them not, my Amy,
Thy heart is like my own;
And still enshrined in mine, my Amy,
Thine image lives alone:

Whate'er a rival's hopes have fed,
Thy soul cannot be moved
Till he shall plead as I have plead,

Why should I murmur lest she may forget me?
Why should I grieve to be by her forgot?
Better, then, wish that she had never met me,
Better, oh far, she should remember not!

Yet that sad wish — ah, would it not come o'er her
Knew she the heart on which she now relies?
Strong it is only in beating to adore her —
Faint in the moment her lov'd image flies!

Why should I murmur lest she may forget me?

In dreams — in dreams she answers to my yearning,
And fondly lays her downy cheek to mine;
In dreams each night that faithful form returning
Will on my breast with sweet content recline:
Awhile my heart keeps time to her soft breathing,
Heaving in motion to her bosom heaving.

I wake — and oh, there is an inward sinking,
A drear soul-faintness coming o'er me then,
That through the livelong day but makes my thinking
One fond, fond aching thus to dream again, —
Soul — soul, where art thou through the day employ'd,

Thou ask'st me why that thought of death
Should rise within our souls the same —
Why now, when dearer grows each breath
Of life, we shrink not at his name!
What is it, sweet, but faith in each
The other could not live alone?
What but the wish at once to reach
The land where change is never known?

As, parted here, we dare not think
Of wearying years to come between!
Nay, start not, love, as on the brink
Of what may be — as it hath been —
We only part like twin-born rays
Diverging from the morning sun,

Life seems to thee more earnest, dearest!
And is it not the same with me?
Why, sweet, each shadow that thou fearest
To me becomes reality —
A thought — a pang to mar my gladness,
And cloud my brow with tender sadness —
And all of loving thee!

The jest from which thou often turnest
Is only love's fond thoughtful guile,
And comes from heart in love most earnest
When it would make thee smile —
Is but the stream's bright circles breaking
Beneath thy blessed tear-drops — waking

Nay, plead not thou art dull to-night,
When I can see the tear-drop stealing,
Soft witness to love's watchful sight,
Some lurking grief within revealing.
Wouldst thou so cheat the friend thou lovest
Of half the wealth he owns in thee?
Why, sweet one, by that smile thou provest
Thy tears as well belong to me!
Ah, tears again! — well, let them flow,
In tenderness thus flow for ever,
Those last upon my breast I know
Fresh from affection's fruitful river.
What! smiles once more! — Sweet April wonder,

My life's whole pilgrimage have I not told —
Mapping my Past before those loving eyes,
With such minuteness that they might behold
Each hair-line of my soul, without disguise?
Was Truth not woven, every line acrost —
An iron thread through silver subtleties
Of Fancy or of Feeling, howe'er gloss'd?
Was Faith not there, at rein or helm the while,
A guide, a check, for fancy's luring smile,
A guide, a check, for feeling passion-toss'd?
Oh, how then, now, can thought of me so vile,

I waited for thee — but all restless waited,
For soul like mine, it ever must be moving;
I knew one spirit with my own was mated,
Yet I mistook that restlessness for loving:
Of mine own nature an ideal created,
And loved because I only thus was fated.
Fated, bewilder'd thus in thought and feeling,
To waste the freshness of my soul away,
To see each bud of spring in turn revealing
But canker'd blooms upon a fruitless spray, —
Why marvel then in prayer I oft am kneeling,
Sweet minister of grace! to bless thy spirit-healing?