The Forsaken

He never meets me as of old,
As friends less cherished meet me;
His glance is even calm and cold,
To welcome or to greet me:
His sighs ne’er follow where I move,
Or tell what others’ sighs do;--
But though his lips ne’er say, “I love,”
I often think his eyes do!

He never turns, amid the throng,
Where colder ears will listen;
Or gives one thought to that poor song
Once made his eyelids glisten;
But sometimes when our glances meet,
As looks less warm--more wise--do,
Albeit his lips ne’er say, “‘Tis sweet,”--
I often think his eyes do!

Oh! brighter smiles than mine may glass
His hours of mirth or sorrow;
And fairer forms than mine may pass
Across his path to-morrow:
But something whispers solace yet,
As stars through darkened skies do;--
His lips ne’er say, “I don’t forget,”--
I often think his eyes do!