Poetry Archives

O blame me not for the cruel words
  In a moment of madness said;
The shadow that fell upon my life
  Is cold as the shrouded dead.
Deem not I am hard and heartless;
  My tears are as warm as thine;
’Twas clay that I crowned and worshipped,
  And wept o’er its crumbled shrine.

To me, my passionate, deathless soul,
  Was less than his finger-tips;
He turned away fro the gold of my love
  For the dross on a wanton’s lips.
My faith in his truth is broken—
  Even truth itself is a lie.
I have cursed him!—but I love him,
  And I’ll love him till I die.