I asked you for your love again,
And I presumed too much it seemed.
The happiness of which I dreamed
Was but a jest, to laugh at then?
A trifle, that your wanton eyes
Beheld, yet would not recognise.
“I will be just your friend,” I said,
“‘ Twere better thus to be content
Than everlasting banishment.”
You scarcely paused to turn your head.
Not needed, I had ceased to be
A thing for your utility!
I went my way, as others do.
These are not days to rant, and weep.
What pain there was I buried deep,
Together with my thoughts of you;
And in that grave they lie apart,
Unmourned, save by a breaking heart.