Love was true to me,
True and tender;
I who ought to be
Love’s defender,
Let the cold winds blow
Till they chilled him;
Let the winds and snow
Shroud him—and I know
That I killed him.
Years he cried to me
To be kinder;
I was blind to see
And grew blinder.
Years with soft hands raised
Fondly reaching,
Wept and prayed and praised,
Still beseeching.
When he died I woke,
God! how lonely,
When the gray dawn broke
On one only.
Now beside Love’s grave
I am kneeling;
All he sought and gave
I am feeling.
