This last denial of my faith, Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard; And, though upon my bed of death,
There's no use in weeping, Though we are condemned to part: There's such a thing as keeping
A Short Poem or Else Not Say I True pleasure breathes not city air, Nor in Art's temples dwells,
Not in scorn do I reprove thee, Not in pride thy vows I waive, But, believe, I could not love thee,
"Sister, you've sat there all the day, Come to the hearth awhile; The wind so wildly sweeps away,
If thou be in a lonely place, If one hour's calm be thine, As Evening bends her placid face
What is she writing? Watch her now, How fast her fingers move! How eagerly her youthful brow