“I LOVE YOU, BUT A SENSE OF PAIN.”

I love you, but a sense of pain

Is in my heart and in my brain;

Now, when your voice and eyes are kind,

May I reveal my complex mind?

Though I am yours, it is my curse

Some ideal passion to rehearse:

I dream of one that's not like you,

Never of one that's half so true.

To quell these yearnings, vague and wild,

I often kneel by our dear child,

In still, dark nights ( you are asleep ),

And hold his hands, and try to weep.

I cannot weep; I cannot pray —

Why grow so pale, and turn away?

Do you expect to hold me fast

By pretty legends in the past?

It is a woman's province, then,

To be content with what has been?

To wear the wreath of withered flowers,

That crowned her in the bridal hours?

Still, I am yours: this idle strife

Stirs but the surface of my life:

And if you would but ask once more,

“How goes the heart?” or at the door

Imploring stand, and knock again,

I might forget this sense of pain,

And down oblivion's sullen stream

Would float the memory of my dream!