Not by this poor, this painful subterfuge, Not by the small concealments of a rhyme, Nor any talk of sins which are more huge, More monstrous than the sins of all past time, Not by the mention of Isolt or such, Though great and golden runs the argument, Would I persuade you that I love as much -- Not this my drift, not this my dry intent. For I have only simple things to say, Such ordinary things, and if they might Be said but in the ordinary way, Your arms about me now and every night I should not need to ransack history For what is little apt to comfort me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ROSE-BUD; TO A YOUNG LADY by WILLIAM BROOME EPITAPHS OF THE WAR, 1914-18: CONVOY ESCORT by RUDYARD KIPLING ODES I, 9. TO WINTER by QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS THE TEARES OF THE MUSES by EDMUND SPENSER THE MEMORY OF THE HEART by DANIEL WEBSTER |