We were together, and I longed to tell
How drop by silent drop my bosom bled.
I took some verses full of you, and read,
Waiting for God to work some miracle.
They told how love had plunged in burning hell
One half my soul, while the other half had fled
Upon love's wings to heaven; and you said:
“I like the verses; they are written well.”
If I had knelt confessing “It is you,
You are my torment and my rapture too,”
I should have seen you rise in flushed disdain:
“For shame to say so, be it false or true!”
And the sharp sword that ran me through and through,
On your white bosom too had left a stain.