OF all the torments, all the cares, With which our lives are curst; Of all the plagues a lover bears, Sure rivals are the worst! By partners in each other kind, Afflictions easier grow; In love alone we hate to find Companions of our woe. Sylvia, for all the pangs you see Are laboring in my breast, I beg not you would favor me; -- Would you but slight the rest! How great soe'er your rigors are, With them alone I'll cope; I can endure my own despair, But not another's hope. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN A LIBRARY by EMILY DICKINSON BETH GELERT; OR, THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND by WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER THOSE WHO LOVE by SARA TEASDALE APRIL by OBADIAH CYRUS AURINGER TO THE WINDS; A SONG by PHILIP AYRES TO MISS DIXON by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |