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Poem by Thomas MacDonagh
After a Year
After a year of love Death of love in a day; And I who ever strove To hold love in sure life Now let it pass away With no grief and no strife. Pass -- but it holds me yet; Love, it would seem, may die; But we can not forget And can not be the same, As lowly or as high, As once, before this came. Never as in old days Can I again stoop low; Never, now fallen, raise Spirit and heart above To where once life did show The lone soul of my love. None would the service ask That she from love requires, Making it not a task But a high sacrament Of all love's dear desires And all life's grave intent. And if she asked it not?-- Should I have loved her then?-- Such love was our one lot And our true destiny. Shall I find truth again?-- None could have known but she. And she?-- But it is vain Her life now to surmise, Whether of joy or pain, After this borrowed year. Memory may bring her sighs, But will it bring a tear? What if it brought love back?-- Love? -- Ah! love died to-day-- She knew that our hearts lack One thing that makes love true. And I would not gainsay, Told her I also knew. And there an end of it-- I, who had never brooked Such word as all unfit For our sure love, brooked this-- Into her eyes I looked, Left her without a kiss.
Thomas MacDonagh's other poems:
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