And the bitter winter there.-- So; we part, my Launcelot, My true knight! and am I not Your true Guinevere?
Oft they parted thus, they tell, In that mystical romance... Were they placed, think you, perchance, For such love, in Hell?
No! it can not, can not be! Love is God, and God is love: And they live and love above, Guinevere and he.
I must go now.--See! there fell, Molten into purple light, One wild star. Kiss me good night, And once more. Farewell.
What am I, and what is he, Who can take and break a heart, As one might a rose, for sport, In its royalty?
What am I that he has made All this love a bitter foam Blown about the wreck-filled gloam Of a soul betrayed?
He who of my heart could make Hollow crystal, where his face, Like a passion, had its place, Holy, and then break!
Shatter with neglect and sneers!-- But these weary eyes are dry, Tearless clear; and if I die They shall know no tears.
But my soul weeps. Let it weep! Let it weep, and let the pain In my heart and in my brain Cry itself to sleep.--
Ah! the afternoon is warm; And the fields are green and fair; Many happy creatures there Through the woodland swarm.
All the summer land is still, And the woodland stream is dark Where the lily rocks its barque Just below the mill....
If they found me icy there 'Mid the lilies, and pale whorls Of the cresses in my curls, Wet, of raven hair!--
Poor Ophelia! are you such? Would you have him thus to know That you died of utter woe And despair o'ermuch?
No!--such acts are obsolete: Other things we now must learn:-- Though the broken heart will burn, Let it show no heat.
So I'll write him as he wrote, Coldly, with no word of scorn-- He shall never know a thorn Rankles here!... Now note:--
"You'll forget," he says; "and I Feel 'tis better for us twain: It may give you some small pain, But, 'twill soon be by.
"You are dark and Maud is light. I am dark. And it is said Opposites are better wed.-- So I think I'm right."
"You are dark and Maud is fair"!-- I could laugh at his excuse If the bitter, mad abuse Were not more than hair!
But I'll write him, as if glad, Some few happy words--that might Touch upon some past delight That last year we had.
Not one line of broken vows, Sighs or hurtful tears--unshed! Faithless hearts--far better dead! Nor a withered rose.