Woman's Song

No more upon my bosom rest thee,     Too often have my hands caressed thee,             My lips thou knowest well, too well;     Lean to my heart no more thine ear     My spirit's living truth to hear             It has no more to tell.     In what dark night, in what strange night,     Burnt to the butt the candle's light             That lit our room so long?     I do not know, I thought I knew     How love could be both sweet and true:             I also thought it strong.     Where has the flame departed? Where,     Amid the empty waste of air,             Is that which dwelt with us?     Was it a fancy? Did we make     Only a show for dead love's sake,             It being so piteous?     No more against my bosom press thee,     Seek no more that my hands caress thee,             Leave the sad lips thou hast known so well;     If to my heart thou lean thine ear,     There grieving thou shalt only hear             Vain murmuring of an empty shell.