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Half-Hearted.

When next you come, O love!
Come in a tumult strong.
Come with a strength above
The reach of song

Fill me with vague alarms,
Smite me with softest fears,
Weak as a babe in arms
Bring me to tears.

Come not, and then go by.
Leaving only unrest;
Come not a passer-by,
Come as a guest.

What could I do? she grew
Fond without fault of mine,
Every day fonder, too,
Foolish Adine!

Had I but loved her more.
Her fettered soul were free
On wings of love to soar
And comfort me.

Had I but loved her less,
I had not mourned her, wed—
Her eyes would not confess
A love not dead.

When next you come, O love!
Come like a welt'ring sea,
Flooding its shores above,
Come so—or flee.