That oft love’s words, when sweetest, with deceitfulness are fraught—
And though the slighted heart may hide its bitterness of wo,
There is yet a fount of sorrow, the world may never know.
Then ask me not thy love and faithlessness so coldly to forget,
Or that our early destinies have once so sadly met.
Can the sea blot out the burning stars reflected on its breast,
Or the caged bird forget the haunts where first it built its nest?
The wildest storm that rocks the one, gives place to stars again,
And though the captive bird sings on, ’tis a lovèd green-wood strain!
The ocean-shell forgets not its low, sweet plaintive moan,