Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
Andrew Macphail, comp.  The Book of Sorrow.  1916.
XXVI. Melancholy
To Mary
By 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        5
  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;        10
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,        15
  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!        20
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,        25
  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,        30
As fancy never could have drawn,
  And never can restore!

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