"Good-bye," I said to my conscience-- "Good-bye for aye and aye," And I put her hands off harshly, And turned my face away; And conscience smitten sorely Returned not from that day.
But a time came when my spirit Grew weary of its pace; And I cried: "Come back, my conscience; I long to see thy face." But conscience cried: "I cannot; Remorse sits in my place."
Ah, yes, 't is sweet still to remember, Though 'twere less painful to forget; For while my heart glows like an ember, Mine eyes with sorrow's drops are wet, And, oh, my heart is aching yet. It is a law of mortal pain That old wounds, long accounted well, Beneath the memory's potent spell, Will wake to life and bleed again.
So 't is with me; it might be better If I should turn no look behind,-- If I could curb my heart, and fetter From reminiscent gaze my mind, Or let my soul go blind--go blind! But would I do it if I could? Nay! ease at such a price were spurned; For, since my love was once returned, All that I suffer seemeth good.
I know, I know it is the fashion, When love has left some heart distressed, To weight the air with wordful passion; But I am glad that in my breast I ever held so dear a guest. Love does not come at every nod, Or every voice that calleth "hasten;" He seeketh out some heart to chasten, And whips it, wailing, up to God!
Love is no random road wayfarer Who where he may must sip his glass. Love is the King, the Purple-Wearer, Whose guard recks not of tree or grass To blaze the way that he may pass. What if my heart be in the blast That heralds his triumphant way; Shall I repine, shall I not say: "Rejoice, my heart, the King has passed!"
In life, each heart holds some sad story-- The saddest ones are never told. I, too, have dreamed of fame and glory, And viewed the future bright with gold; But that is as a tale long told. Mine eyes have lost their youthful flash, My cunning hand has lost its art; I am not old, but in my heart The ember lies beneath the ash.
I loved! Why not? My heart was youthful, My mind was filled with healthy thought. He doubts not whose own self is truthful, Doubt by dishonesty is taught; So loved I boldly, fearing naught. I did not walk this lowly earth; Mine was a newer, higher sphere, Where youth was long and life was dear, And all save love was little worth.