Poems (Chitwood)/False

For works with similar titles, see False.

FALSE.

"I've been in the world,
And my heart hath grown cold;
I love thee no more
As I loved thee of old.
I could list to the songs
That once moved me to tears,
Without a heart-thrill,
For those long-buried years.
I could roam in strange lands,
And my soul never yearn
For the 'light of the days
That can never return.'

"I could sit on the banks
Of our old trysting-stream,
And of thy lost whispers
Have never a dream.
I could gather wild roses,
So fragile and fair,
Nor dream of the garlands
I wove for thy hair.
I could pass by the elm,
With its mosses o'ergrown,
And stop not to read
The dear name 'neath my own.

"Oh, start not! reprove not!
Thy troth thou hast kept;
Like a dove in thy bosom
In peace it hath slept.
I know I am dearer
Than others to thee;
I know how unworthy,
How faithless I be.
I know that thy heart
Never changed or grew cold;
Forgive me, I love thee
No more as of old."

Oh! gaily the honest
Confession was made:
The youth felt the head
On his false bosom laid,
Slide down to his knee,
And the slight little form
Thrilled, swayed as a primrose
In some sudden storm.
With the vows of a moment
He strove to recall
The spirit that gave
To affection its all.

But all was in vain—
In day and in night,
In silence and darkness,
In joy and in light,
Henceforth he walked never,
Oh! never alone;
For a form kept its shadow
In one with his own,
And anon, through the rustle
Of shroud and of mold
Came the voice, "Yet I love thee
As fond as of old."