Tell me, for I dread the healing
Of the heart above its dead—
Its dead dreams of hope and feeling,
And its passionate revealing
In the bitter tear-drops shed
Long, and long, by wounded fondness—
Wounded love that wept and bled.
Tell me that, though pale and withered,
All the flowers of feeling lie;
That no frost above has gathered,
And no icy bound has tethered
The strong soul's intensity;
Tell me ye can love and suffer,
Hope and trust yet earnestly.
Let me think that calm and holy,
Gently warm and softly light,
Neither gay nor melancholy,
Neither sad nor joyous wholly,
But all sweetly still and bright,
Like a lovely Indian summer,
Age may come and bring no blight.
But if storms must moan and shiver,
Through life's late autumnal trees,
God! I pray thee, though they quiver
Life's frail cords for aye and ever,
With the sharpest agonies,
Let my soul remain unaltered,
My heart keep its sympathies.
Let life's fever, hot and burning,
All consume me with its flame;
Let me die of hopeless yearning,
And a grief that knows no turning
Feed upon my mortal frame,
Till it perish with endurance,
But quench not my spirit's flame!
