Ah me! the vision has vanished, the music has died away! |
Ah, yes! Success, I fear, has come too late! |
Ah! how ugly Life can be After Love from it is lopped! |
And all but their faith overthrown. |
But the gray and the cold are haunted By a beauty akin to pain, -- By a sense of a something wanted, That never will come again. |
Do I hate you? No! Not hate? Hate's a word far too intense, Too alive, to speak a state Of supreme indifference. |
Give me the old enthusiasms back, Give me the ardent longings that I lack, -- The glorious dreams that fooled me in my youth, The sweet mirage that lured me on its track. . . . |
Hate me an hour, and then turn round And love me truly, just one minute. |
I dream of the purple glory Of the roseate mountain-height And the sweet-to-remember story Of a distant and clear delight. |
I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life, The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife. |
Man is content to know that he is loved, And tires the constant phrase "I love" to hear; But woman doubts the instrument is broke Unless she daily hear the sweet refrain. |
Mosquito critics with a poisonous sting. |
Nothing can be sour and sharp As a love that has decayed -- On the loose strings of the harp Only discord can be made. |
Of every noble work the silent part is best, Of all expression that which can not be expressed. |
On the broken stem of dreams Only disappointments grow. |