What are to me those honours or renown
Past or to come, a new-born people's cry?
Albeit for such I could despise a crown
Of aught save laurel, or for such could die.
I am a fool of passion, and a frown
Of thine to me is as an adder's eye.
To the poor bird whose pinion fluttering down
Wafts unto death the breast it bore so high;
Such is this maddening fascination grown,
So strong thy magic or so weak am I.
[First published, Murray's Magazine, February, 1887, vol. i. p. 146.]
ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.[133]
1.
'T is time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!
2.
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of Love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!
3.
The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone[iii] as some Volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze—
A funeral pile.
4.