Posted on Monday, 14 June 1999

From Sense And Sensibility, By Jane Austen, Volume 3, Chapter 1

It presses hard against me,
The thought of him so dear;
Being from me taken,
By one who lingers here.

She tells me of her conquest,
And how he loves her so;
The cry I have so guarded,
Now from me must go!

Four months have I know it:
That he for whom I'd die,
Would be given to another-
That she had passed me by.

Oft have I heard the sentence-
Death! (to me, that is)
Told as a joyful secret,
And a candied kiss.

I was bound to quiet,
I could not tell a soul;
While smiling- oft would o're me,
The pain of sorrow roll.

Marianne! I've known your sorrow,
And your pain I know;
If not for her promise,
My broken heart would show!