Was it Thee

The storms of Passion blind my feeble sight,
And Pain distorts the memory of time.
So here am I, within this bleeding rhyme,
To beg an answer for that starless night.
No other rescuers approach. Thou must
Dissuade these hurricanes of ceaseless doubt
From tearing up an old bud’s rip’ning sprout.
Confess the truth to save me from a gust
Of horror, hurling petals past the sea-
Side. Say who walked away with spiteful jeers
Of villainy. Who whispered to our rose the fears
Of loneliness untempered? Was it thee?
Or did my fickle feet make haste to run
Before our rose could ripen in the sun?



Apparition in the forest
Moritz Ludwig von Schwind