Cruel? I think there never was a cheating
More cruel, thro’ all the weary days than this!
This is no dream, my heart kept on repeating,
But sober certainty of waking bliss.
Dreams? O, I know their faces, goodly seeming,
Vaporous, whirled on many-coloured wings;
I have had dreams before, this is no dreaming,
But daylight gladness that the daylight brings.
What ails my love; what ails her? She is paling;
Faint grows her face, and slowly seems to fade!
I cannot clasp her, stretch out unavailing
My arms across the silence and the shade.
Amy Levy
(Note: I found this poem in another blog, during an online research: http://another-masque.tumblr.com/post/819512946/thefindesiecle-gustav-klimt-love-1895)
