I asked you for your love again,

And I presumed too much it seemed.

The happiness of which I dreamed

Was but a jest, to laugh at then?

A trifle, that your wanton eyes

Beheld, yet would not recognise.

"I will be just your friend," I said,

"'Twere better thus to be content

Than everlasting banishment."

You scarcely paused to turn your head.

Not needed, I had ceased to be

A thing for your utility!

I went my way, as others do.

These are not days to rant, and weep.

What pain there was I buried deep,

Together with my thoughts of you;

And in that grave they lie apart,

Unmourned, save by a breaking heart.