Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Love is a spy who is plotting treason

Know that I am not loved as I love you

Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?

there is no pathway by which we can go Back to the dead past's wonderland;

As I look up into your eyes and wait For some response to my fond gaze and touch, It seems to me there is no sadder fate Than to be doomed to loving overmuch.

I am as weak as other women are: Your frown can make the whole world like a tomb; Your smile shines brighter than the sun, by far. Sometimes I think there is not space or room In all the earth for such a love as mine, And it soars up to breathe in realms divine.

Are you not kind? Ah, yes, so very kind— So thoughtful of my comfort, and so true. Yes, yes, dear heart; but I, not being blind, Know that I am not loved as I love you.

How has it been since we drank that last kiss, That was bitter with lees of the wasted wine, When the tattered remains of a threadbare bliss, And the worn-out shreds of a joy divine, With a year's best dreams and hopes, were cast Into the rag-bag of the Past?

Do you sometimes sigh for the tattered shreds Of the old delight that we cast away, And find no worth in the silken threads Of newer fabrics we wear to-day? Have you thought the bitter of that last kiss Better than sweets of a later bliss?

You think I am speaking strangely? You cannot understand? Well, let me look down into your eyes, And let me take your hand. I am running away from danger; I am flying before I fall; I am going because with heart and soul I love you—that is all. There, now you are white with anger; I knew it would be so. You should not question a man too close When he tells you he must go.