  She says: 'Poor Friend, you waste a treasure Which you can ne'er regain— Time, health, and glory, for the pleasure Of toying with a chain.' But then her voice so tender grows, So kind and so caressing; Each murmur from her lips that flows Comes to me like a blessing. Sometimes she says: 'Sweet Friend, I grieve you— What can I? Ah, might I relieve you, You ne'er had mourned in vain!' And then her little hand she presses Upon her heart, and sighs; While tears, whose source not yet she guesses, Grow larger in her eyes. Aubrey de Vere |
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