Absence

Absence, they tell me, is the grave of Love!
     Can it be so, young bride? To selfish souls,
     Or such so sordid Avarice controls
It may, perhaps, be true. Affection’s dove
     Makes its home only with the gentle heart;
But when it once hath nestled there, nor change,
Nor chance, nor circumstance, can e’er estrange
     The bright one from its resting-place ‚ ‘twill part
Only with severing life—perchance not then.
     Absence from thee but purifies the flame
     Within my heart—its fervor is the same,
With thee—away—in solitude—‘mid men—
It burneth brightly ever! Love’s pure shrine
Is in thy heart—its constant offering is mine!