Call me not false, beloved,

If, from thy scarce-known breast

So little time removed,

In other arms I rest.

For this more ancient bride,

Whom coldly I embrace,

Was constant at my side

Before I saw thy face.

Our marriage, often set —

By miracle delayed —

At last is consummate,

And cannot be unmade.

Live, then, whom Life shall cure

Of harassing Remembrance,

And leave us to endure

Until our Lord descends.