For of the human heart,
Not brain, is memory;
These things it makes a part
Of its own entity;
The joys, the pains whereof
Are the very food of love.
5
She lays down the book.
How true! how true!—but words are weak
In sympathy they give the soul,
To music—music, that can speak
All the heart's pain and dole;
Still making us remember most
The love we've lost, the love we've lost.
So weary am I, and so fain
To see his face, to feel his kiss
Thrill rapture through my soul again,
There is no hell like this.—
Ah, God! my God, were it not best
To give me rest, to give me rest?
6
She writes to him to come to her.
Dead lie the dreams we cherished,
The dreams we loved so well;
Like forest leaves they perished,
Like autumn leaves they fell.
Alas! that dreams so soon should pass!
Alas! Alas!
The stream lies bleak and arid
That once went singing on;
The flowers once that varied
Its banks are dead and gone:
Where these were once are thorns and thirst—
The place is curst.
Come to me; I am lonely:
Forgive what you have heard.—
Come to me; if for only
One last sad parting word:
For one last word before the pall
Falls over all.