A Farewell

I put thy hand aside and turn away. Why should I blame the slight and fickle heart That cannot boldly go, nor bravely stay — Too weak to cling, and yet too fond to part! Dead passion chains thee where her ashes lie; Cold is the shrine — ah! cold for evermore; Why linger, then, while golden moments fly, And sunshine waits beyond the open door? Nay — fare thee well ; for memory and I Must tarry here and wait, . . . We have no choice, Nor other better joy until we die — Only to wait — and hear nor step, nor voice, Nor any happy advent come to break The watch We keep alone — for love's dear sake.