Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, HAST THOU FORGOT ME?, by MARY E. LEE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

HAST THOU FORGOT ME?, by                    
First Line: Hast thou forgot me? Thou who hast departed
Last Line: "though wrong'd, neglected, she was not forgot!"


HAST thou forgot me? Thou who hast departed
Like a glad sunbeam from my yearning sight,
Leaving the spirit worn and broken-hearted,
Where once hope built a temple of delight.
Hast thou forgot me? Thou, unto whose keeping
I gave my every thought of perfect love,
Till on my idol's shrine, all treasure heaping,
I scarcely dared to look to heaven above.

Hast thou forgot me? Unto outward seeming
My quivering lip with ready smile is mask'd;
And the warm crimson through my cheek is streaming, --
Alas! 't is from the fever'd heart o'er-task'd;
But could they read, as in a faultless mirror,
The truth my woman's pride would still repress,
Soon would they own themselves to be in error,
And mourn my lot of utter wretchedness.

Hast thou forgot me? E'en in youth's glad hours
I trembled 'neath the least glance of thine eye,
And life's gay pathway was bedeck'd with flowers
And light and fragrance if thou wast but nigh;
Each music-note of bliss to thee was given;
Each joy and grief were told thee, e'en in birth;
Thy presence made my home another heaven, --
When thou wast absent 't was but common earth.

Hast thou forgot me? With what fond endeavour
I hurried on in learning's endless chase;
While wasted health and strength seem'd nought, if ever
I won the dear approval from thy face;
The midnight toil, the strife, the weary vision,
The pining after knowledge, vain and free,
I struggled against all, one hope elysian
Sustain'd me, 't was that I might grow worthy thee!

Hast thou forgot me? Like yon flow'ret bending
On fragile stem, beneath the north wind's wrath,
So to the darksome tomb I am descending,
No more to cast a shadow o'er thy path;
A few more months, and then this care-worn spirit
Shall gently hush its never-ceasing moan,
And find, what long it yearneth to inherit,
The narrow church-yard plot, with weeds o'ergrown.

Hast thou forgot me? Ah! I would not waken
One goading thought, beloved friend, in thee;
Nor brook to have thy slightest feeling shaken
With knowledge of the harm thou wrought'st to me.
But oh! forgive, if now, when I am dying,
I breathe this wish, and let it grieve thee not!
That thou wilt seek my grave, and murmur, sighing,
"Though wrong'd, neglected, she was not forgot!"





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