WILD COLUMBINE. 



INCONSTANCY. 



SONNET. 



BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. 



And why, why didst thou so quickly turn , 



From love that never faltered? Could'st thou find 

 No lasting peace in that exhaustless urn ? 



No sanction meet thy woman's heart to bind ? 

 Perchance thy fancy o'er me threw a light 



That dazzled e'en a vision clear as thine, 

 And after-knowledge, like a fatal blight, 



Withered each garland on the humble shrine ; 

 Yet hadst thou patience, time might still restore 



Thy soul's creation, — love new traits can mould ; 

 We ever grow like that which we adore, 



And promise fills all hearts that are not cold ; 

 Teach me my errors, prove my faith awhile, 

 Then send me if thou canst, an exile from thy smile. 



