How much there is of mad’ning pain
For one who loves too deep—too well
To be beloved so back again —
To be so loved, yet doomed to see
All that he loves droop hopelessly!
Ah me! I look upon the past,
As o’er some book of faded flowers,
Where Joys, now crushed, too sweet to last,
Remind me of those vanished hours;
And every trace those leaves impart