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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Author Unknown


THOUGH that which made my life is fled,

I still could live and still could smile,

Were I but sure thy love now dead

Once lived a little while.

The future I can bear to lose,

But not the past—oh, not the past!

Ah, love! do not this prayer refuse,

And it shall be my last.

Ah, love! when ’neath the oak we stood,

The moon pale-gleaming through her tears

Showed your stern face and altered mood,

Which first awoke my fears.

As grows the storm-cloud on the blast,

My darkening fears have grown and grown;

But let, oh, let me keep the past,

Though hope and love have flown.

Again in dreams I silent stand,

As that pale night, black leaves beneath;

Against your side you press my hand,

I feel each throbbing breath.

The night wind moans in the long grass;

By it, or thee, was the tale told

Which made the ghost of true love pass

Wringing her white hands cold?

Though side by side, arm linked in arm,

It swept between us bitter chill;

And now in blinding sunshine warm

I shiver with it still.

Here in the same long grass I lie,

The selfsame branches overhead;

I watch the pitiless blue sky;

Would it shone o’er me dead!