Arthur William Edgar O’Shaughnessy (1844–1881)

IF she but knew that I am weeping

Still for her sake,

That love and sorrow grow with keeping

Till they must break

My heart that breaking will adore her,

Be hers and die;

If she might hear me once implore her,

Would she not sigh?

If she did but know that it would save me

Her voice to hear,

Saying she pitied me, forgave me,

Must she forbear?

If she were told that I was dying,

Would she be dumb?

Could she content herself with sighing?

Would she not come?