'Twas eve and May when last, through tears
   Thine eyes sought mine, thy hand my hand.
The night came down her silent spheres. 
           And up the silent land.

In silence, too, my thoughts were furled, 
   Like ring-doves in the dreaming grove. 
Who would not lightly lose the world
           To keep such love?

But many Mays, with all their flowers,
   Are faded since that blissful time --
The last of all my happy hours
           I' the golden clime!

By hands not thine these wreaths were curled
   That hide the care my brows above:
And I have almost gained the world
           But lost that love.

As though for some serene dead brow,
  These wreaths for me I let them twine,
I hear the voice of praise, and know 
           It is not thine. 

How many long and lonely days
   I strove with life thy love to gain!
I know my work was worth thy praise;
           But all was vain.

Vain Passion's fire, vain Music's art!
   For who from thorns grape-bunches gathers?
What depth is in the shallow heart?
           What weight in feathers?

As drops the blossom, ere the growth
   Of fruit, on some autumnal tree, 
I drop from my changed life, its youth
           And joy in thee:

And look beyond, and o'er thee, -- right 
   To some sublimer end than lies
Within the compass of the sight
           Of thy cold eyes.

With thine my soul hath ceased its strife.
  Thy part is filled; thy work is done;
Thy falsehood buried in my life,
           And known to none,

Yet still will golden memories frame
   Thy broken image in my heart, 
And love for what thou wast shut blame 
           From what thou art. 

In Life's long galleries, haunting-eyed,
   Thy pictured face no change shall show;
Like some dead Queen’s who lived and died
           An age ago!