John Addington Symonds (1840–1893)

IT is buried and done with,

The love that we knew:

Those cobwebs we spun with

Are beaded with dew.

I loved thee; I leave thee:

To love thee was pain:

I dare not believe thee

To love thee again.

Like spectres unshriven

Are the years that I lost;

To thee they were given

Without count of cost.

I cannot revive them

By penance or prayer;

Hell’s tempest must drive them

Thro’ turbulent air.

Farewell, and forget me;

For I too am free

From the shame that beset me,

The sorrow of thee.