The love which binds me still shall burn.
Though friends to foe should choose to turn.
So it may be: yet hate me not, I pray;
'Tis a pure love that fills my breast;
Yet I have sought to tear that love away,
To crush it in its dawning day,
And, failing, am I curst or blest
In living void of hope or rest?
Curst you will say, and you may pity me,
And look less cold, or even smile;