THEY who may tell love's wistful tale, Of half its cares are lighten'd; Their bark is tacking to the gale, The sever'd cloud is brighten'd. Love, like the silent stream, is found Beneath the willows lurking, The deeper, that it hath no sound To tell its ceaseless working. Submit, my heart; thy lot is cast, I feel its inward token; I feel this misery will not last, Yet last till thou art broken. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 26 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE FLOWER OF FINAE by THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS THE TEST by RALPH WALDO EMERSON SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: EDITOR WHEDON by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DORIS; A PASTORAL by ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY |