I Love Thee Still.

I never have been false to thee!--
    The heart I gave thee still is thine;
Though thou hast been untrue to me,
    And I no more may call thee mine!
I've loved, as woman ever loves,
    With constant soul in good or ill:
Thou'st proved as man too often proves,
    A rover--but I love thee still!

Yet think not that my spirit stoops
    To bind thee captive in my train!--
Love's not a flower at sunset droops,
    But smiles when comes her god again!
Thy words, which fall unheeded now,
    Could once my heart-strings madly thrill!
Love a golden chain and burning vow
    Are broken--but I love thee still!

Once what a heaven of bliss was ours,
    When love dispelled the clouds of care,
And time went by with birds and flowers,
    While song and incense filled the air!
The past is mine--the present thine--
    Should thoughts of me thy future fill,
Think what a destiny is mine,
    To lose--but love thee, false one, still!

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

The Sword and the Staff

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Look From Thy Lattice, Love.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Prairie on Fire

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Epigram. On Hearing that Morse Did Not "Invent" the Telegraph

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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

Love Thee, Dearest!

Love thee, dearest?--Hear me.--Never
Will my fond vows be forgot!
May I perish, and for ever,
When, dear maid, I love thee not!
Turn not from me, dearest!--Listen!
Banish all thy doubts and fears!
Let thine eyes with transport glisten!
What hast thou to do with tears?

Dry them, dearest!--Ah, believe me,
Love's bright flame is burning still!
Though the hollow world deceive thee,
Here's a heart that never will!
Dost thou smile?--A cloud of sorrow
Breaks before Joy's rising sun!
Wilt thou give thy hand?--To-morrow,
Hymen's bond will make us one!

George Pope Morris

Thou Hast Woven the Spell.

Thou hast woven the spell that hath bound me,
    Through all the sad changes of years;
And the smiles that I wore when I found thee,
    Have faded and melted in tears!
Like the poor, wounded fawn from the mountain,
    That seeks out the clear silver tide,
I have lingered in vain at the fountain
    Of hope--with a shaft in my side!

Thou hast taught me that Love's rosy fetters
    A pang from the thorns may impart;
That the coinage of vows and of letters
    Comes not from the mint of the heart.
Like the lone bird that flutters her pinion,
    And warbles in bondage her strain,
I have struggled to fly thy domain,
    But find that the struggle is vain!

George Pope Morris

Oh, Think of Me!

Oh, think of me, my own beloved,
    Whatever cares beset thee!
And when thou hast the falsehood proved,
    Of those with smiles who met thee--
While o'er the sea, think, love, of me,
    Who never can forget thee;
Let memory trace the trysting-place,
    Where I with tears regret thee.

Bright as you star, within my mind,
    A hand unseen hath set thee;
There hath thine image been enshrined,
    Since first, dear love, I met thee;
So in thy breast I fain would rest,
    If, haply, fate would let me--
And live or die, so thou wert nigh,
    To love or to regret me!

George Pope Morris

Only Thine.

I know that thou art mine, my love,
    I know that thou art fair;
And lovelier than the orange-flowers
    That bind thy glossy hair:
That thou hast every gentle grace
    Which nature can design--
I know that thou art mine, my love,
    I know that I am thine:
            Yes, thine, my love,
            I'm thine, my love,
    Thine, thine, and only thine.

I know that thou art true, my love,
    And welcome as the breeze
Which comes, with healing on its wings,
    Across the summer seas:
That thou hast every winning charm
    Which culture may refine--
I know that thou art mine, my love,
    I know that I am thine.
            Yes, thine, my love,
            I'm thine, my love,
    Thine, thine, and only thine.

George Pope Morris

She Loved Him.

She loved him--but she heeded not--
    Her heart had only room for pride:
All other feelings were forgot,
    When she became another's bride.
As from a dream she then awoke,
    To realize her lonely state,
And own it was the vow she broke
    That made her drear and desolate!

She loved him--but the sland'rer came,
    With words of hate that all believed;
A stain thus rested on his name--
    But he was wronged and she deceived;
Ah! rash the act that gave her hand,
    That drove her lover from her side--
Who hied him to a distant land,
    Where, battling for a name, he died!

She loved him--and his memory now
    Was treasured from the world apart:
The calm of thought was on her brow,
    The seeds of death were in her heart.

George Pope Morris

Wearies my Love?

Wearies my love of my letters?
Does she my silence command?
Sunders she Love's rosy fetters
As though they were woven of sand?
Tires she too of each token
Indited with many a sigh?
Are all her promises broken?
And must I love on till I die?

Thinks my dear love that I blame her
With what was a burden to part?
Ah, no!--with affection I'll name her
While lingers a pulse in my heart.
Although she has clouded with sadness,
And blighted the bloom of my years,
I lover still, even to madness,
And bless her through showers of tears.

My pen I have laid down in sorrow,
The songs of my lute I forego:
From neither assistance I'll borrow
To utter my heart-seated wo!
But peace to her bosom, wherever
Her thoughts or her footsteps may stray...

George Pope Morris