Verse > Anthologies > Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. > An American Anthology, 1787–1900
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Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  An American Anthology, 1787–1900.  1900.
 
329. Song
 
By Frederick William Thomas
 
 
’T IS said that absence conquers love!
  But, oh! believe it not;
I ’ve tried, alas! its power to prove,
  But thou art not forgot.
Lady, though fate has bid us part,        5
  Yet still thou art as dear,
As fixed in this devoted heart,
  As when I clasped thee here.
 
I plunge into the busy crowd,
  And smile to hear thy name;        10
And yet, as if I thought aloud,
  They know me still the same;
And when the wine-cup passes round,
  I toast some other fair,—
But when I ask my heart the sound,        15
  Thy name is echoed there.
 
And when some other name I learn,
  And try to whisper love,
Still will my heart to thee return
  Like the returning dove.        20
In vain! I never can forget,
  And would not be forgot;
For I must bear the same regret,
  Whate’er may be my lot.
 
E’en as the wounded bird will seek        25
  Its favorite bower to die,
So, lady! I would hear thee speak,
  And yield my parting sigh.
’T is said that absence conquers love!
  But, oh! believe it not;        30
I ’ve tried, alas! its power to prove,
  But thou are not forgot.
 

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