Unlearned to Love
HE hath unlearned to love; for once he loved
A being whom his soul almost adored,
And she proved faithless; turned in scorn upon
His heart’s affections; to another gave
The love she once did pledge as all his own.
And now he doth not love. Within his heart
Hate dwells in sullen silence. His soul broods
Over its wrongs, over deluded hopes.
Fancy no more builds airy castles.
Amid the crowd he passes on alone.
The branches wave no more to please his eye,
And the wind singeth no sweet songs to him.
The murmuring brook but murmurs discontent,
And all his life is death since Love hath fled.
O, who shall count his sorrows? who shall make
An estimate of his deep, burning woes,
And place them all in order, rank on rank?
Language is weak to tell the heart’s deep, wrongs.
We think, and muse, and in our endless thought
We strive to grasp, with all the mind’s vast strength,
The undefinable extent of spirit grief,
And fail to accomplish the herculean task.