TO MARY

by: Charles Wolfe (1791-1823)

F 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 they smiles have been.

While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own;

But there--I lay thee on 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!

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