When I behold the sorrow of young hearts,
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So innocently wild, so blindly true,
Unschooled to Life and all its weary arts,
(We that so differently wear our rue!)
These tears so fresh, these mortal wounds so new,
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This loss no other heart hath ever known,
This sky so black that was so madly blue,—
In grief for this I quite forget my own.
Ah! when young lover from young lover parts,
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(When I, beloved, that day did part from you!)
What balsam is there for that smart of smarts?
Alas! Time shall assuage that sorrow too;
On Young Despair there lingers still the dew,
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It knows not yet the grief of grief out-grown,
That bitterest potion Time hath yet to brew—
In grief for this I quite forget my own.
Twin huntsmen Love and Death, twin poisoned darts,—
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Yet Time a leech-craft to out-wit them knew;
Alas! the splendid pain too soon departs;
That fearful labyrinth without a clue
Familiar grows, and all in vain we strew
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New graves for Love and Death with mimic moan,
We Life hath numbed with living through and through—
In grief for this I quite forget my own.
Prince, would our lovely griefs were yet to do,—
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To be with our first dead again alone,
Again for love to break our hearts in two!—
In grief for this I quite forget my own.