What though she lieth mute on yonder hill?
Though ivy green and shadowy eglatere
Have held in tender fold through many a year
Her quiet grave, I fear her — fear her still.
He loved her once. Ay, though he hold me fast
And sear my lips with kisses burning-sweet,
No touch of mine can make his life replete
For man's first love is oftentimes his last.
A still face glimmers through my dreams for aye.
E'en when I strain him close with feverish grasp
Wan grave-cold fingers loose the clinging clasp,
And grave-cold lips my fervid kisses stay.
She lives incarnate in each flower fair,
Her eyes illume the violets in my hand,
The golden-rod that lights the Autumn land
Seems but the scattered star-dust of her hair.
Love's perfect flower may never bloom for me —
For me his wife. For ah! I fear her still
Who lies forever mute on yonder hill.
He loved her once. Would God that I were she!