is there a bitter pang for love removed,

o god! the dead love doth not cost more tears

than the alive, the loving, the beloved —

not yet, not yet beyond all hopes and fears!

would i were laid

under the shade

of the calm grave, and the long grass of years —

that love might die with sorrow:— i am sorrow;

and she, that loves me tenderest, doth press

most poison from my cruel lips, and borrow

only new anguish from the old caress;

oh, this world’s grief

hath no relief

in being wrung from a great happiness.

would i had never filled thine eyes with love,

for love is only tears: would i had never

breathed such a curse-like blessing as we prove;

now, if “farewell” could bless thee, i would sever!

would i were laid

under the shade

of the cold tomb, and the long grass forever!