My love for you is not an ardent thing,
And I can take or leave your beauty’s lustre:
In you I love past suffering’s memories’ muster,
The misspent youth to which I’d like to cling.

And when,...Read more

My love for you is not an ardent thing,
And I can take or leave your beauty’s lustre:
In you I love past suffering’s memories’ muster,
The misspent youth to which I’d like to cling.

And when, betimes, I look upon your face,
On delving eyes in my preoccupation:
I’m having then a secret conversation,
For you are not my words of passion’s chase.

I’m talking to a love of younger days,
And in your face I’m other’s features seeking,
The lips of one who’s long since finished speaking,
In eyes extinguished flame of other’s gaze.

1841

translation by Rupert Moreton

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