MANY say of me, why does he complain, Losing his best years for so slight an ill? Why mourn so loud, if hope he harbours still; If nought he hopes, why not content remain? When whole and free, I used the selfsame strain, But surely he has little wit or skill, Or else his heart do pride and malice fill, Who blames my grief, but reckons not my pain. Love, with a hundred pangs, has stabbed me through, And still they bid me my complaints subdue. I'm not so mad as to increase my grief By speaking. Only my lost peace restore, Sonnets and songs I quit for evermore; Meanwhile, who grief forbid should give relief. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SEASONS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE LAWYERS KNOW TOO MUCH by CARL SANDBURG SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ANNE RUTLEDGE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SIR JOHN FRANKLIN by GEORGE HENRY BOKER PLANTING by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN SUMMING UP ITALY; INSCRIBED TO INTELLIGENT PUBLICS OUT OF IT by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE PROPHET by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |