604. To Mary

Charles Wolfe. 1791-1823

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,
    I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
    That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
    The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
    And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
    And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
    That I must look in vain.
But when I speak--thou dost not say
    What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
    Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
    All cold and all serene--
I still might press thy silent heart,
    And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
    Thou seemest still mine own;
But there--I lay thee in thy grave,
    And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
    Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
    In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
    Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
    And never can restore!

The Oxford Book of English Verse, HTML edition