My love to me is cold,

And no more seeks my gaze; I wonder why!

The smile of welcome that I loved of old

No longer lights her eye.

One little week ago

I asked no surer guide than Cupid's chart;

I said, "Your eyes reveal the depths below,

And I can read your heart."

She let her shy gaze fall,

And smiling asked, "Is then my face a screed,

My brow an open love-letter, where all

The world my thoughts may read?"

Said I, "The world, I'll vow,

Is blind! Myself alone may see the signs,

And know the message written on your brow:

I read between the lines."

My dear to me is cold;

Gone somewhere is the love-light from her eye;

And, when our ways meet, stately she doth hold

Her course. I wonder why.