"O love, lean thou thy cheek to mine,
And let the tears together flow"—Such was the song you sang to me Once, long ago.
Such was the song you sang; and yet(O be not wroth!) I scarcely
What sounds flow'd forth;
I only felt That you were you.
I scarcely knew your hair was gold,
Nor of the heavens' own blue your eyes.
Sylvia and song, divinely mixt, Made Paradise.
These things I scarcely knew; to-day,
When love is lost and hope is fled,
The song you sang so long ago Rings in my head.
Clear comes each note and true; to-day,
As in a picture I
Your tur'd-up chin, and small, sweet head Misty with gold.
I see how your dear eyes grew deep,
How your lithe body thrilled and swayed,
And how were whiter than the keys Your hands that played. . .
Ah, sweetest! cruel have you been,
And robbed my life of many things.
I will not chide; ere this I knew That Love had wings.
You've robbed my life of many things—Of love and hope, of fame and pow'r.
So be it, sweet.
You cannot steal One golden hour.
