The Visionary

I Pray thee do not speak to me
     As you are speaking now,
It brings the colour to my check,
     The shadow to my brow.

I pray thee do not look at me,
     I cannot bear that gaze ;
Though downcast be my eye, it still
    Too much my heart betrays.

            I feel the past is written there,
     The past, long since gone by—
           The past, where feelings, fancies, hopes,
     Alike unburied lie ;

Unburied, for their restless ghosts
     Still haunt the sad domain,
And mockeries of their former selves,
     Come thronging back again.

But changed as I and thou art changed,
     Or rather me alone,
I never had your heart—but mine,
     Alas ! was all your own.

O, magic of a tone and word,
     Loved all too long and well,
I cannot close my heart and ear
     Against their faithless spell—

I know them false, I know them vain,
     And yet I listen on—
And say them to myself again,
     Long after thou art gone.

I make myself my own deceit,
     I know it is a dream,
But one that from my earliest youth
     Has coloured life’s deep stream ;

Frail colours flung in vain, but yet
     A thousand times more dear
Than any actual happiness
     That ever brightened here.

The dear, the long, the dreaming hours
     That I have past with thee,
When thou hadst not a single thought
     Of how thou wert with me—

I heard thy voice—I spoke again—
     I gazed upon thy face,
And never scene of breathing life
     Could leave a deeper trace,

Than all that fancy conjured up,
     And made thee look and say,
Till I have loathed reality,
     That chased such dream away.

Now, out upon this foolishness,
     Thy heart it is not mine ;
           And, knowing this, how can I waste
     My very soul on thine ?

Alas ! I have no power to choose,
     Love is not at my will ;
I say I must be careless, cold,
     But find I love thee still.

I think upon my wasted life,
     And on my wasted heart,
And turn, ashamed and sorrowful,
     From what will not depart.

Thy haunting influence, how it mocks
     My efforts to forget !
The stamp love only seals but once
     Upon my life is set.

I hear from others gentle words,
     I scarcely heed the while ;
Listened to, but with weariness,
     Forgotten with a smile.

But thine, though chance and usual words
     Are treasured, as we keep
Things lovely, precious, and beloved,
     O’er which we watch and weep.

I scarcely wish to see thee now,
     It is too dear a joy :
It is such perfect happiness,
     It must have some alloy.

I dream of no return from thee—
     Enough for me to love ;
I brood above my silent heart,
     As o’er its nest the dove.

But speak not, look not, mock me not,
     With light and careless words ;
It wounds me to the heart, it jars
     My spirit’s finest chords.

I’ll not forget thee ;—let me dream
     About thee as before.
But, farewell, dearest ; yes, farewell,
     For we must meet no more.