UNHAPPY I, in whom no joy appears, And but for sorrow of all else forlorn; Mishaps increasing faster than my years, As I to grieve and die were only born. Dark sullen night is my too tedious day; In it I labour when all others rest, And wear in discontent those hours away, Which make some less deserving greater blest. The rose-cheek'd morn I hate, because it brings A sad remembrance of my fairer fair, From whose dear grave arise continual springs, Whose misty vapours cloud the lightsome air. And only now I to my love prefer Those clouds which shed their rain, and weep for her. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEAD LEAVES by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 12. A RENUNCIATION by THOMAS CAMPION A GLASS OF BEER by JAMES STEPHENS THE BLIND MAN by WILLIAM HERVEY ALLEN JR. A PICTURE AT NEWSTEAD by MATTHEW ARNOLD SONNETS FOR NEW YORK CITY: 2. A POLITICAL 'BOSS' by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH AN ELEGY ON SIR THOMAS OVERBURY; POISONED IN THE TOWER OF LONDON by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |