Page:Ethel Churchill Fragments I.pdf/36



The deep, the long, the dreaming hours, That I have past with thee, When thou hadst not a single thought Of how thou wert with me.

I heard thy voice, I spoke again, I gazed upon thy face; And never scene of actual life Could bear a deeper trace

Than all that fancy conjured up, And made thee look and say; Till I have loathed reality, That chased such dream away.

Alas! this is vain, fond, and false; Thy heart is not for me; And, knowing this, how can I waste My very soul on thee?