YOU say I should not think upon her now:
But then I have stood beside her listening,
And watched her rose-breathed lips when she would sing:
And I can scarcely yet imagine how
I ever should despise that stately brow
And flowering breast that is so pure a thing.
Alas for all the weary blood-running
When from the heart love strives to tear a vow!
And yet perchance-even as you tell me-soon
Her spirit of my spirit will leave hold,
And, when I hear her tread, I shall not blush
Doubly, for love and shame. But then the moon
Assuredly will rise, and Sleep shall fold
Her hair round me, and Death will whisper Hush!