THEY told me, when I knew thee first,
Thou wert not made for loving,
That next St. Valentine's would see
Thy truant heart a-roving; —

That thou wouldst weary of my love,
Turn from me, and for ever!
That I would meekly bow and weep,
But chide the rover never.

Ah! those were mournful prophecies,
To cloud the sky of youth;
And thou and I, we little thought
So soon to test their truth!

We are that sad truth's witnesses,
Proofs manifest and living, —
Thou art for-getting this poor heart,
And I am still for-giving!