XXXIII

A perfect love is nourished by despair.

I am thy pupil in the school of pain;

Mine eyes will not reproach thee for disdain,

But thank thy rich disdain for being fair.

Aye! the proud sorrow, the eternal prayer

Thy beauty taught, what shall unteach again?

Hid from my sight, thou livest in my brain;

Fled from my bosom, thou abidest there.

And though they buried thee, and called thee dead,

And told me I should never see thee more,

The violets that grew above thy head

Would waft thy breath and tell thy sweetness o'er,

And every rose thy scattered ashes bred

Would to my sense thy loveliness restore.