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And she turn’d-her bosom shaken with a sudden storm

of sighs— All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes

Saying, “I have hid my feelings, fearing they should

do me wrong;” Saying, “ Dost thou love me, cousin ? ” weeping, “I

have loved thee long.”

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn’d it in his

glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the

chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music

out of sight.

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses

ring, And her whisper throng’d my pulses with the fulness of

the Spring

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately

ships, And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.

O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no


O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren


Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have

sung, Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish


Is it well to wish thee happy ?-having known me—to


On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than


Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise

with clay.

As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a


And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag

thee down.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its

novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his


What is this? his eyes are heavy: think not they are

glazed with wine. Go to him: it is thy duty: kiss him: take his hand in thine.

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought: Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy

lighter thought.

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to under


Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with

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Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's

disgrace, Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace.

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength

of youth! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living


Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's


Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten’d forehead of

the fool!

Well—'tis well that I should bluster!-Hadst thou less

unworthy proved — Would to God—for I had loved thee more than ever

wife was loved.

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but

bitter fruit?

I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years


should come

As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery


Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the


Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her,


I remember one that perish'd: sweetly did she speak and


Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love.

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she


No—she never loved me truly: love is love for evermore.

Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth the poet

sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.

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