Joanna Baillie (1762–1851)

THEY who may tell love’s wistful tale,

Of half its cares are lighten’d;

Their bark is tacking to the gale,

The sever’d cloud is brighten’d.

Love, like the silent stream, is found

Beneath the willows lurking,

The deeper, that it hath no sound

To tell its ceaseless working.

Submit, my heart; thy lot is cast,

I feel its inward token;

I feel this misery will not last,

Yet last till thou art broken.