Lost Love
I play my sweet old airs—The airs he knewWhen our love was true—But he does not balkHis determined walk,And passes up the stairs.
I sing my songs once more,And presently hearHis footstep nearAs if it would stay;But he goes his way,And shuts a distant door.
So I wait for another mornAnd another nightIn this soul-sick blight;And I wonder muchAs I sit, why suchA woman as I was born!
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.