Poems (Griffith)/Thou Lovest Me No More
Thou Lovest Me No More.
THOU lovest me no more. It needs not words To tell me thou art altered now. Alas! I mark it well in thy cold, studied tone. Oh would affection seek its warmth to hide In tones whose chilling, freezing cadences Fall on the soul like Alpine drops? 'Tis true Thou still dost say that I am dear; thy lip Still murmurs all love's practised flatteries, But thy stern glance of cold and withering pride Turns all the hollow mockeries of thy words To bitter, bitter ashes on my heart. I utter no reproaches. Slowly now And silently and mournfully ope My spirit's rosy-gate, and drive from thence Each dear and starwinged hope that I have loved Through long, long years to cherish.
Never more,—Oh never more, thou false one, may I bear In vernal bower or in the gilded hall, A flee, and light, and happy heart. Yet I Shall mingle still amid the wild and gay, My laugh will echo loudest in the din Of mirth and joyousness, and none may know The soul's deep bitterness, the quivering hopes Crushed on the spirit's hearth. My smiles will be As bright as they have been, and none may see, That, cold and vacant like the moon's pale beams Upon a ruined temple, they but light The gloom and shadow that keep watch below. Mine still will be the gay and merry jest, The keen reply, the free and buoyant tread, And none may ever rend the veil, and see What darkly lies beneath.
But think thou not,Proud and perfidious one, my strong, stern pride Shall fail me in my solitude. Ah no, The unrelenting tear may never break Forth from its deep and hidden fount. The spell Of passion still is on me, but disdain Heeds not the murmuring tone of love's wild chant, That rises like the low voice of the wind Wandering at midnight o'er the mouldering chords Of a neglected harp. For ever crushed And broken be the rosy memories That in their fairy beauty floated erst Through my love-lighted soul.
Thy ring is cold,It seems to bind my finger with a spell Of ice, for its bright circle is not now The emblem of unending truth and trust. I'm gazing on thy picture, but I see No smile of sweet endearment on these lips, No high devotion on this pale, stern brow, No gleam of tore-light beaming in these eyes Of midnight fire—nay even here is change. I send thee back thy vain and worthless gifts—Ah, proud one, would that I could give thee back Thy bosom's truth.
I said I would not weep Again, but drops of mingled tears and blood, From the recesses of a breaking heart Are gushing, and the shower has brought relief; For oh! I feel that now the awful gloom Which filled my bosom with its cloudy weight, Is broken and dispersed. Within its deep Dark mists the genius of the tempest stood Like a dread night-mare of the soul, and held My spirit's elements in thrall. but now The loosened zephyrs wander as they list, The deep, strong spell that bound them is dissolved, And lo! the twilight soft comes stealing on With its one star, the star of memory, Pale, pale, but very beautiful.
I count The drops that, one by one, fall on my heart, Turning its woman's softness into stone; Yet, to that heart, all worn and changed, thou still Art dear, and ever wilt be dear Some thoughts Of thee, though all my future years will be Like by-gone music lingering in my soul, A sweet bird-carol heard in childhood's years, Or like the lone funereal lamp that burns Within the dark and solitary depths Of Eastern tombs, forever shining on Where all around is death and dull decay.