All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know,
All my hopes where’er thou goest
Wither—yet, with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee—by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now.
But ’tis done, all words are idle;
Words from me are vainer still;