Can I not portion out my heart with these?
If I were dead, my cypress would lament,
My rose-tree shed its leaves upon my grave,
My nightingale weep long in forest tent—
She would not mourn me dead that scorns to save.
IV.
Thou cam'st, thou cam'st; and with thee came delight,
Not mine alone. The little flowers and leaves
Shook at the first gleam of thy garment white;
And still yon myrtle thrills, yon almond heaves.