If my dark grandam had but known,
Or yet my wild grandsir,
Or the lord that lured the maid away
That was my sad mother,

O had they known, O had they dreamed
What gift it was they gave,
Would they have stayed their wild, wild love,
Nor made my years their slave?

Must they have stopped their hungry lips
From love at thought of me?
O life, O life, how may we learn
Thy strangest mystery?

Nay, they knew not, as we scarce know;
Their souls, O let them rest;
My life is pupil unto pain—
With him I make my quest.

O the burden, the burden of love ungiven,
The weight of laughter unshed,
O heavy caresses, unblown tendernesses,
O love-words unsung and unsaid.

O the burden, the burden of love unspoken,
The cramp of silence close-furled,
To lips that would utter, to hands that would scatter
Love's seed on the paths of the world.

O the heavy burden of love ungiven:
My breast doth this burden bear;
Deep in my bosom the unblown blossom—
My world-love that withers there.

Teach it me, if you can,—forgetfulness!
I surely shall forget, if you can bid me;
I who have worshipp'd thee, my god on earth,
I who have bow'd me at thy lightest word.
Your last command, “Forget me,” will it not
Sink deeply down within my inmost soul?
Forget thee!—ay, forgetfulness will be
A mercy to me. By the many nights,
When I have wept for that I dared not sleep,—
A dream had made me live my woes again,
Acting my wretchedness, without the hope
My foolish heart still clings to, though that hope
Is like the opiate which may lull a while,

R EMEMBERING this—how Love
Mocks me, and bids me hoard
Mine ill reward that keeps me nigh to death,—
How it doth still behove
I suffer the keen sword,
Whence undeplor'd I may not draw my breath
In memory of this thing
Sighing and sorrowing,
I am languid at the heart
For her to whom I bow,
Craving her pity now,
And who still turns apart.

I am dying, and through her—
This flower, from paradise
Sent in some wise, that I might have no rest.
Truly she did not err
To come before his eyes

Farewell, dear Love! since thou wilt needs be gone:
Mine eyes do show my life is almost done.
Nay, I never will die
So long as I can spy;
There be many moe
Though that she do go.
There be many moe, I fear not.
Why then, let her go, I care not.

Farewell, farewell! since this I find is true,
I will not spend more time in wooing you.
But I will seek elsewhere
If I may find her there.
Shall I bid her go?
What and if I do?
Shall I bid her go, and spare not?
Oh, no, no, no, no, I dare not.

Ten thousand times farewell! Yet stay awhile,

Sleepless
in the cold dark,
I look
through the closed dim
door be-
fore me, which be-
comes an
abyss into
which my
memories have
fallen
past laughter or
horror,
passion or hard
work—my
memories of
our past
laughter, horror,
passion,
hard work. An ache
of be-
ing. An ache of
being,
over love. An
ache of
being over
love. Like
projections on
the screen
of the heavy
window
curtains, flashing
lights of
a slow-scraping
after-
midnight snowplow
for a
moment pulse in
this room.

And could'st thou, youthful songstress, prove
The pangs, the bliss that wait on love;
While from that careless air of thine,
Thou seem'st to worship at the shrine
Of chill indiff'rence;—yet so well
You paint the boy, that sure his spell
The urchin round thy hearth did steal;
We best express what most we feel.

Was it sweet to have lived, I wonder,
In the days when the world was young?
When, parting the boughs in sunder,
In the forest the wood-nymph sung?
Was it sweet, in the woods' recesses,
To mark 'neath a moonlit sky
The glitter of Venus' tresses
As the queen and her train swept by?

She must have been grand and peerless,
Queen Venus, with Love in her train.
Then the eyes of the world were tearless:
Will they ever be tearless again?
Our woods and our groves are chilly,
The goddess is no more there:
'Mid our rocks and regions hilly

When love in the faint heart trembles,
And the eyes with tears are wet,
Oh, tell me what resembles
Thee, young Regret?
Violets with dewdrops drooping;
Lilies o'erfull of gold,
Roses in June rains stooping,
That weep for the cold,
Are like thee, young Regret.

Bloom, violets, lilies, and roses!
But what, young Desire,
Like thee, when love discloses
Thy heart of fire?
The wild swan unreturning,
The eagle alone with the sun,
The long-winged storm-gulls burning
Seaward when day is done,
Are like thee, young Desire.

Wearies my love of my letters?
Does she my silence command?
Sunders she Love's rosy fetters
As though they were woven of sand?
Tires she too of each token
Indited with many a sigh?
Are all her promises broken?
And must I love on till I die?

Thinks my dear love that I blame her
With what was a burden to part?
Ah, no!—with affection I'll name her
While lingers a pulse in my heart.
Although she has clouded with sadness:
And blighted the bloom of my years,
I love her still, even to madness,
And bless her through showers of tear.