I put thy hand aside, and turn away: Why should I blame the slight and fickle heart That cannot bravely go, nor boldly stay, Too weak to cling, and yet too fond to part? Dead Passion chains thee where her ashes lie. Cold is the shrine, ah, cold for evermore! Why linger, then, while golden moments fly And sunshine waits beyond the open door? Nay—fare thee well, for memory and I Must tarry here and wait. … We have no choice Nor other better joy, until we die, Only to wait, and hear nor step nor voice, Nor any happy advent come to break The watch we keep alone—for Love’s dear sake!
Collection: