Look in my griefs, and blame me not to mourn, From care to care that leads a life so bad; Th' orphan of fortune, born to be her scorn Whose clouded brow doth make my days so sad. Long are their nights whose cares do never sleep, Loathsome their days whom no sun ever joyed; Her fairest eyes do penetrate so deep That thus I live both day and night annoyed. But since the sweetest root doth yield thus much, Her praise from my complaint I may not part; I love th' effect for that the cause is such, I'll praise her face, and blame her flinty heart; Whilst that we make the world admire at us, Her for disdain, and me for loving thus. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOLES BORED IN A WORKBAG BY THE SCISSORS by MARIANNE MOORE IRELAND by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES [MAY 10, 1863] by MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON HENDECASYLLABICS by ALFRED TENNYSON ON BEING BROUGHT FROM AFRICA TO AMERICA by PHILLIS WHEATLEY TO A GENTLEMAN & LADY ON THE DEATH ... CHILD NAMED AVIS by PHILLIS WHEATLEY |