Jane Wilde

27 December 1821 – 3 February 1896


Let mine eyes the parting take,
Which my faint lips never can;
Moments such as these might break
Even the sternest heart of man.
Mournfully doth Joy's eclipse,
Shroud in grief Love's sweetest sign;
Cold the pressure of thy lips,
Cold the hand that rests in mine.
Once the slightest stolen kiss
O, what rapture did it bring!
Like a violet's loveliness,
Found and plucked in early spring.
Now, no more my hand shall twine,
Rose wreaths, sweetest love, for thee;
Without, is summer's glorious prime,
Within, weird autumn's misery.
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