Youth seems the waste instead.
—Robert Browning.
———
ON THE EVE OF DEPARTURE
At the midnight, in the silence of the sleep-time,
When you set your fancies free,
Will they pass to where—by death, fools think, imprisoned—
Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you love so,
—Pity me?
O to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken!