[Byron]   [Home]

Lewis Morris
1833 - 1907


Alas for me that my love is dead !

Sunk fathom-deep, and may not rise again:

Self-murder'd, vanish'd, fled beyond recall:

And this is all my pain.

'Tis not that She I loved is gone from me;

She lives, and grows more lovely day by day:

Not Death could kill my love, --- but, though She lives,

My love has died away.

Nor was it that a form or face more fair

Forswore my troth, for so my love had proved

Eye-deep alone, not rooted in the soul:

And 'twas not thus I loved.

Nor that, by too long dalliance with delight

And recompense of love, my love had grown

Surfeit with sweets, like some tired bee that flags

'Mis roses overblown.

None of these slew my love; but some cold wind,

Some chill of doubt, some shadowy dissidence,

Born out of too great concord, did o'ercloud

Love's subtle inner sense.

So one sweet changeless chord too long sustain'd

Falls at its close into a lower tone;

So the swift train sped on the long straight way,

Sways and is overthrown.

For difference is the soul of life and love,

And not the barren oneness weak souls prize:

Rest springs from strife, and dissonant chords beget

Divinest harmonies.


[Byron]   [Home]