Heart Complex

Farewell, Letter of Love! farewell: it's her desire. How long did I delay! How long refused, in ire, I to destroy the single joy of mine!... Enough! The time has come. Burn, scripts of love divine. I'm ready; nothing else can call for my sad soul… Now the greedy flame is touching its form whole… A minute!… it is flamed and blazing – smoke, light, With my bitter laments, is flying off my sight. And now the ring's stamp forfeited its form previous – It's boiling – the seal wax… O, Providence of Heavens! That's all! The letter's leaves are twisted, now black; On their light ashes their well known track Is whitening… My heart is squeezed. Oh, dear ashes, In my sad destiny, my poor consolations, Forever lie on breast, so fully, fully wracked…  

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin--his control Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from

As from the house your mother sees You playing round the garden trees, So you may see, if you will look Through the windows of this book, Another child, far, far away, And in another garden, play. But do not think you can at all, By knocking on the window, call That child to hear you. He intent Is all on his play-business bent. He does not hear, he will not look, Nor yet be lured out of this book. For, long ago, the truth to say, He has grown up and gone away, And it is but a child of air That lingers in the garden there.