Alas! is it only in some bright past
That love can be perfect and bliss secure?
O days of delight that flew by too fast,
Leaving the present too empty and poor!
I had sometimes fancied a pang like this,
From a passing tone, or a look in his face;
But the meeting was such unclouded bliss,
And the days that follow'd it full of grace.
In the sweet content of finding a home,
There was not leisure for joy to grow dim;
But the cloud was there, and ready to come,
And the cloud was the fear of change in _him_!
Harry is changed--he is graver,--I think
Never I'll see the old Harry again:
There's a look in his face that makes my heart sink,
For it is a look of a hopeless pain.
Sometimes I hardly can keep down my cries--
I could wring my hands--I could tear my hair--
When an expression comes into his eyes,
Which is the expression of a despair.
He never alludes to the dreadful past;
But when his lips tremble and brow is knit,
I cannot bear it, and cry out at last,
'O talk of it, Harry--O talk of _it_!'
His eyes are full of a helpless regret
(And I almost wish I was lying dead);
Will he not talk of it? not even yet?--
He speaks in a whisper, and shakes his head.
'I cannot--I dare not.' 'You can--you dare--
You must do it, Harry--just for my sake;
For this burthen, which it is _not_ to bear,
Is crushing my heart, and my heart will break.
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