Lost Love

I play my sweet old airs—
   The airs he knew
   When our love was true—
   But he does not balk
   His determined walk,
And passes up the stairs.

I sing my songs once more,
   And presently hear
   His footstep near
   As if it would stay;
   But he goes his way,
And shuts a distant door.

So I wait for another morn
   And another night
   In this soul-sick blight;
   And I wonder much
   As I sit, why such
A woman as I was born!