MY head is sick and my heart is faint, I am wearied out with my own complaint. Answer me, come to me, then; For, lo! I have pleaded by everything My brain could dream, or my lips could sing. I have called you lover, and called you king, And man of the race of men! Come to me glad, and I will be glad; But if you are weary, or if you are sad, I will be patient and meek, Nor word, nor smile will I seem to crave; But I'll sit and wait, like an Eastern slave, Or wife, in the lodge of an Indian brave, In silence, till you speak. Come, for the power of life and death Hangs for me on the lightest breath Of the lips that I believe; Only pause by the cooling lake, Till your weary mule her thirst shall slake; 'T were a fearful thing if a heart should break And you held its sweet reprieve! Sleep lightly under the loving moon; Rise with the morning, and ride till noon; Ride till the stars are above! And as you distance the mountain herds, And shame the flight of the summer birds, Say softly over the tenderest words The poets have sung of love. You will come -- you are coming -- a thousand miles Away, I can see you press through the aisles Of the forest, cool and gray; And my lips shall be dumb till our lips have met, For never skill of a mortal yet, To mortal words such music set, As beats in my heart to-day! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RIGHT TO GRIEF by CARL SANDBURG WEDDING BED IN MANGKUTANA by KAREN SWENSON TREES by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS ON THE DEATH OF MR. PURCELL by JOHN DRYDEN ON SOMETHING THAT WALKS SOMEWHERE by BEN JONSON IDYLLS OF THE KING: THE HOLY GRAIL by ALFRED TENNYSON |