What sighs and joy and grief and happiness
Would flash from me to you with lightning speed.
Nor hope nor pray'r can still the soul's desire,
For God Himself can never join us twain;
My bitter tears fall on my heart like rain
And cannot quench its all-consuming fire.
Oh! Now to break the spell—the storm to breast
With broken heart and life-blood ebbing fast,
Bearing the pangs of death for you, at last,
Dark troubled love—at last thou wert at rest!