Poem by Constance Caroline Woodhill Naden

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THEY told me she was still the same,
In form, and mind, and heart;
With freshly-dawning joy I came,
And now in grief depart.

Still round the forehead, smooth and white,
The golden tresses twine,
The face is fair, the step is light,
As when I called her mine.

And yet the mouth that once I kissed
Is not the same as then;
The smile of love I never missed
Comes not for me again.

More measured is the silver voice,
The words more fitly said;
But while she speaks, I half rejoice
To feel my love is dead.

The eyes are deeper than before,
And far more subtly sweet;
And yet I pray that mine no more
Their altered glance may meet.

My dream is past. I loved a child,
The woman I resign;
The world and she are reconciled,
And now she is not mine.

1. To a Hyacinth in January
2. The Sister of Mercy
3. May, 1879
4. Love Versus Learning
5. Hercules

Charles Calverley Changed ("I know not why my soul is rack'd")

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