On the broken stem of dreams<br/>Only disappointments grow.
The rain keeps constantly raining,<br/>And the sky is cold and gray,<br/>And the wind in the trees keeps complaining<br/>That summer has passed away; --
When, full of warm and eager love,<br/>I clasp you in my fond embrace,<br/>You gently push me back and say,<br/>Take care, my dear, you'll spoil my lace.
But the gray and the cold are haunted<br/>By a beauty akin to pain, --<br/>By a sense of a something wanted,<br/>That never will come again.
I dream of the purple glory<br/>Of the roseate mountain-height<br/>And the sweet-to-remember story<br/>Of a distant and clear delight.
Hate me an hour, and then turn round<br/>And love me truly, just one minute.
Give me the old enthusiasms back,<br/>Give me the ardent longings that I lack, --<br/>The glorious dreams that fooled me in my youth,<br/>The sweet mirage that lured me on its track. . . .
Those black eyes I once so praised<br/>Now are hard and sharp and cold;<br/>Where's the love that through them blazed?<br/>Where's the tenderness of old?
The hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart,<br/>Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part.
Do I hate you? No! Not hate?<br/>Hate's a word far too intense,<br/>Too alive, to speak a state<br/>Of supreme indifference.
And all but their faith overthrown.
Of every noble work the silent part is best, of all expression that which can not be expressed.
Ah me! the vision has vanished, The music has died away!