Thy love and thy heart should forever be mine;
But thou hast forgotten, and I—I forgave,
For such is the world, and the fault is not thine.
And again was thy cry, “Thou beloved of my heart,
In heaven itself, without thee I’d pine!”
On earth still we dwell—yet dwell we apart;
’Tis the fault of our age, and the fault is not thine.
My arms they embraced thee, I drank with delight
The dew from thy lips like a nectar divine;
But the dew turned to venom, its freshness to blight,