Constancy

"You gave me the key of your heart, my love;
    Then why do you make me knock?"
"Oh, that was yesterday, Saints above!
    And last night, I changed the lock!"

John Boyle O'Reilly

John Boyle O'Reilly was an Irish poet, journalist, and activist known for his work as the editor of the Boston Pilot newspaper. He was transported to Australia as a penal convict for his involvement in the Irish Republican Brotherhood, but he escaped to the United States where he continued his literary and political activities. O'Reilly also became a prominent advocate for civil rights and the Irish American community.

John Boyle O'Reilly

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Against Constancy

Tell me no more of constancy,
The frivolous pretense
Of old age, narrow jealousy,
Disease, and want of sense.

Let duller fools on whom kind chance
Some easy heart has thrown,
Despairing higher to advance,
Be kind to one alone.

Old men and weak, whose idle flame,
Their own defects discovers,
Since changing can but spread their shame,
Ought to be constant lovers,

But we, whose hearts do justly swell
With no vainglorious pride,
Who know how we in love excel,
Long to be often tried.

Then bring my bath and strew my bed,
As each kind night returns:
I'll change a mistress till I'm dead,
And fate change me for worms.

John Wilmot

Constancy

I cannot change as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn;
Since that poor swain that sighs for you
For you alone was born.
No, Phillis, no; your heart to move
A surer way Ill try;
And, to revenge my slighted love,
Will still love on and die.

When killd with grief Amyntas lies,
And you to mind shall call
The sighs that now unpitied rise,
The tears that vainly fall,
That welcome hour, that ends this smart,
Will then begin your pain;
For such a faithful tender heart
Can never break in vain.

John Wilmot

Constancy In Change.

Could this early bliss but rest

Constant for one single hour!
But e'en now the humid West

Scatters many a vernal shower.
Should the verdure give me joy?

'Tis to it I owe the shade;
Soon will storms its bloom destroy,

Soon will Autumn bid it fade.

Eagerly thy portion seize,

If thou wouldst possess the fruit!
Fast begin to ripen these,

And the rest already shoot.
With each heavy storm of rain

Change comes o'er thy valley fair;
Once, alas! but not again

Can the same stream hold thee e'er.

And thyself, what erst at least

Firm as rocks appear'd to rise,
Walls and palaces thou seest

But with ever-changing eyes.
Fled for ever now the lip

That with kisses used to glo...

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Rings And Seals.

"Go!" said the angry, weeping maid,
"The charm is broken!--once betrayed,
"Never can this wronged heart rely
"On word or look, on oath or sigh.
"Take back the gifts, so fondly given,
"With promised faith and vows to heaven;
"That little ring which, night and morn,
"With wedded truth my hand hath worn;
"That seal which oft, in moments blest,
"Thou hast upon my lip imprest,
"And sworn its sacred spring should be
"A fountain sealed^[1] for only thee:
"Take, take them back, the gift and vow,
"All sullied, lost and hateful now!"

    I took the ring--the seal I took,
While, oh, her every tear and look
Were such as angels look and shed,
When man is by the world misled.
Gently I whispered, "Fanny, dear!
"Not half thy lover's gifts are he...

Thomas Moore

The Passing

It was the hour of dawn,
When the heart beats thin and small,
The window glimmered grey,
Framed in a shadow wall.

And in the cold sad light
Of the early morningtide,
The dear dead girl came back
And stood by his bedside.

The girl he lost came back:
He saw her flowing hair;
It flickered and it waved
Like a breath in frosty air.

As in a steamy glass,
Her face was dim and blurred;
Her voice was sweet and thin,
Like the calling of a bird.

'You said that you would come,
You promised not to stay;
And I have waited here,
To help you on the way.

'I have waited on,
But still you bide below;
You said that you would come,
And oh, I want you so!

'For half my soul is here,
And half my soul is ...

Arthur Conan Doyle

Inconstancy.

And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me,
    When surely there's nothing in nature more common?
She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me--
    And could I expect any more from a woman?

Oh, woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure;
    And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe,
When he held that you were but materials of pleasure,
    And reason and thinking were out of your sphere.

By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it,
    He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid;
But, oh, while he's blest, let him die at the minute--
    If he live but a day, he'll be surely betrayed.

Thomas Moore