O, thou, who loved me once,
From thy Pagoda glance ;
Shoot down a poisoned lance :
All's well that comes from thee.
Look back, look down once more ;
Dear was to thee this shore ;
I see thee nevermore
Beneath the olive tree.
Remains my station low.
Whilst thou dost greater grow ;
Ah, fate hath struck the blow
That parted thee and me.
How can I bear my fate,
How can I loveless wait
In this most sorry state,
When thou art far and free?
Far from the soul that swore
On love's abysmal door
To cling forevermore
To none on earth but thee ;
Free from the sacred plight
Which, to dispel the night.
Thou madest, when I quite
Fell near thy bended knee.
Dost thou not still remember
Love's May and Love's December?
Both burned their sacred ember
In our sweet company.