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Poem by Charles Wolfe


To Mary


If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.
But when I speakthou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But thereI lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore! 



Charles Wolfe


Charles Wolfe's other poems:
  1. The Last Rose of Summer
  2. Oh Say Not That My Heart Is Cold
  3. The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna


Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • William Wordsworth To Mary ("Let other bards of angels sing")
  • Percy Shelley To Mary ("How, my dear Mary, -- are you critic-bitten")
  • William Cowper To Mary ("The twentieth year is well nigh past")
  • John Clare To Mary ("I sleep with thee, and wake with thee")
  • Robert Anderson To Mary ("Exil'd frae thee, and ilka mead")
  • William Thackeray To Mary ("I seem, in the midst of the crowd")

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