It is the law of streams to run,
Of autumn leaves to fall;
And she who has been false to one, —
She will be false to all.

O, wild as tempest on the sea
Is that poor lover's fate,
Whose faithful spirit, bound to thee,
Must hope and fear and wait!

By surge of joy and storm of pain
His heart is soothed or broke;
He would not rend thy heavenly chain, —
He cannot bear thy yoke.

There is no heaven so high as faith,
No hell so deep as doubt,
No haunted spectre like the wraith
Thy fancies wile or flout!

Ah, let that tiger heart of thine,
By brutish mercy led,
To just one piteous act incline —
And strike thy lover dead!

Then, let the streams forever run,
The leaves forever fall!
Thou wilt, — at last, — be true to one,
And not be false to all.