Ccxxxviii — Song
If I had thought thou could’st have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou could’st mortal be.
It never through my mind had past 5
That time would e’er be o’er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou should’st smile no more!
And still upon that face I look,
And think ’twill smile again; 10
And still the thought I will not brook
That I must look in vain.
But when I speak thou dost not say,
What thou ne’er left’st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may, 15
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!
If thou would’st stay, e’en as thou art,
All cold, and all serene—
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been! 20
While e’en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there—I lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone!
I do not think, where’er thou art, 25
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking still of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne’er seen before, 30
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!
Charles Wolfe.