Ella Wheeler Wilcox

As I look up into your eyes and wait For some response to my fond gaze and touch, It seems to me there is no sadder fate Than to be doomed to loving overmuch.

I am as weak as other women are: Your frown can make the whole world like a tomb; Your smile shines brighter than the sun, by far. Sometimes I think there is not space or room In all the earth for such a love as mine, And it soars up to breathe in realms divine.

Are you not kind? Ah, yes, so very kind— So thoughtful of my comfort, and so true. Yes, yes, dear heart; but I, not being blind, Know that I am not loved as I love you.

How has it been since we drank that last kiss, That was bitter with lees of the wasted wine, When the tattered remains of a threadbare bliss, And the worn-out shreds of a joy divine, With a year's best dreams and hopes, were cast Into the rag-bag of the Past?

Do you sometimes sigh for the tattered shreds Of the old delight that we cast away, And find no worth in the silken threads Of newer fabrics we wear to-day? Have you thought the bitter of that last kiss Better than sweets of a later bliss?

You think I am speaking strangely? You cannot understand? Well, let me look down into your eyes, And let me take your hand. I am running away from danger; I am flying before I fall; I am going because with heart and soul I love you—that is all. There, now you are white with anger; I knew it would be so. You should not question a man too close When he tells you he must go.

Time flies. He steals our pulsing youth; He robs us of our care-free days; He takes away our trust and truth: And yet love stays. O Time! take love! When love is vain, When all its best joys die— When only its regrets remain— Let love, too, fly.

You shall sit sometimes, when the leaves are falling, Alone with your heart, as I sit to-day, And hear that voice from your dead Past calling Out of the graves that you hid away.

I am tired to-night, and something, The wind maybe, or the rain, Or the cry of a bird in the copse outside, Has brought back the past and its pain. And I feel, as I sit here thinking, That the hand of a dead old June Has reached out hold of my heart's loose strings, And is drawing them up in tune.

I am tired to-night, and I miss you, And long for you, love, through tears; And it seems but to-day that I saw you go— You, who have been gone for years. And I seem to be newly lonely— I, who am so much alone; And the strings of my heart are well in tune, But they have not the same old tone.