No other heart, but mine alone.
How vain a dream in waking lost!
That leaves the dreamer in despair
To reckon up the bitter cost
And face the future if he dare!
Thy love is but a love of things:
A bit of lace, a clasp of gold,
A silken purse with liberal strings—
Thy heart is cast in shallow mold!
When hast thou thought to look within