WHEN on fair Celia I did spy A wounded heart of stone, The wound had almost made me cry, Sure this heart was my own! But when I saw it was enthron'd In her celestial breast, O then I it no longer own'd, For mine was ne'er so blest. Yet if in highest heavens do shine Each constant martyr's heart, Then she may well give rest to mine, That for her sake doth smart; Where, seated in so high a bliss, Though wounded, it shall live; Death enters not in Paradise, The place free life doth give. Or if the place less sacred were, Did but her saving eye Bathe my sick heart in one kind tear, Then should I never die. Slight balms may heal a slighter sore, No medicine less divine Can ever hope for to restore A wounded heart like mine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LOVE IN AUTUMN by SARA TEASDALE LIGHT [AND LOVE] by FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON ON AN INFANT WHICH DIED BEFORE BAPTISM by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE CATAWBA WINE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW SOMEBODY'S LOVERS by PHOEBE CARY THE FEUD by MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN TO A MAYFLY by PATRICK REGINALD CHALMERS |