She prest her slight hand to her brow, or pain

Or bitter thoughts were passing there. The room

Had no light but that from the fireside,

Which showed, then hid her face. How very pale

It looked, when over it the glimmer shone!

Is not the rose companion of the spring?

Then wherefore has the red-leaved flower forgotten

Her cheek? The tears stood in her large dark eyes–

Her beautiful dark eyes–like hyacinth stars,

When shines their shadowy glory through the dew

That summer nights have wept:–she felt them not,

Her heart was far away! Her fragile form,

Like the young willow when for the first time

The wind sweeps o’er it rudely, had not lost

Its own peculiar grace; but it was bowed

By sickness, or by worse than sickness–sorrow!

And this is Love! Oh! why should woman love;

Wasting her dearest feelings, till health, hope,

Happiness, are but things of which henceforth

She’ll only know the name? Her heart is seared:

A sweet light has been thrown upon its life,

To make its darkness the more terrible.

And this is Love!


Letitia Elizabeth Landon

14th of August, 1802 – 15th October, 1838


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