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.
But a rose! this rose to wear,--
Perle des Jardins, all elate
With sweet life and delicate,--
When he weds her there.
So; 'tis finished. It is well--
Go, thou rose. I have no tear,
Word or kiss for thee to bear,
And no woe to tell.
Only be thus full of life,
Cold and proud, dispassionate,
Filled with neither love nor hate,
When he calls her wife.