It is buried and done with,
The love that we knew:
Those cobwebs we spun with
Are beaded with dew.
I loved thee; I leave thee:
To love thee was pain:
I dare not believe thee
To love thee again.
Like spectres unshriven
Are the years that I lost;
To thee they were given
Without count of cost.
I cannot revive them
By penance or prayer;
Hell's tempest must drive them
Thro' turbulent air.
Farewell, and forget me;
For I, too, am free
From the shame that beset me,
The sorrow of thee.
--_John Addington Symonds_