Hard is the fate of him who loves, Yet dares not tell his trembling pain, But to the sympathetic groves, But to the lonely listening plain, Oh! when she blesses next your shade, Oh! when her footsteps next are seen In flowery tracts along the mead, In fresher mazes o'er the green: Ye gentle spirits of the vale, To whom the tears of love are dear, From dying lilies waft a gale, And sigh my sorrows in her ear. Oh! tell her what she cannot blame, Though fear my tongue must ever bind; Oh, tell her, that my virtuous flame Is, as her spotless soul, refined. Not her own guardian-angel eyes With chaster tenderness his care, Not purer her own wishes rise, Not holier her own sighs in prayer. But if at first her virgin fear Should start at love's suspected name, With that of friendship soothe her ear -- True love and friendship are the same. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LOVELIGHT by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON OFFICE PARTY: DISTAFF VIEW by KAREN SWENSON VICKSBURG by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE MISS KILMANSEGG AND HER PRECIOUS LEG: HER BIRTH by THOMAS HOOD THE TENT ON THE BEACH: 8. THE CABLE HYMN by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER RENCONTRE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |