Come, death, the anchor-hold of all my thoughts, My last resort whereto my soul appealeth, For all too long on earth my fancy dotes, Whilst my best blood my young desires seeleth. That heart is now the prospective of horror, That honored hath the cruel'st fair that liveth -- The cruel'st fair, that sees I languish for her, Yet never mercy to my merit giveth. This is her laurel and her triumph's prize, To tread me down with foot of her disgrace, Whilst I did build my fortune in her eyes, And laid my life's rest on so fair a face; That rest I lost, my love, my life, and all: So high attempts to low disgraces fall. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NIGHT MAIL NORTH (EUSTON SQUARE, 1840) by HENRY CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL EVENING (1) by EMILY DICKINSON MEMORY by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR THE BELEAGUERED CITY by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW IN A COPY OF OMAR KHAYYAM by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL |