Not from thee the wound should come,

  No, not from thee.

Care not what or whence my doom,

  So not from thee!

Cold triumph! first to make

  This heart thy own;

And then the mirror break

  Where fixt thou shin'st alone.

Not from thee the wound should come,

  Oh, not from thee.

I care not what, or whence, my doom,

  So not from thee.

Yet no—my lips that wish recall;

  From thee, from thee—

If ruin o'er this head must fall,

  'Twill welcome be.

Here to the blade I bare

  This faithful heart;

Wound deep—thou'lt find that there,

  In every pulse thou art.

Yes from thee I'll bear it all:

  If ruin be

The doom that o'er this heart must fall,

  'Twere sweet from thee.