Read in my face a volume of despairs, The wailing Iliads of my tragic woe, Drawn with my blood, and printed with my cares, Wrought by her hand, that I have honored so; Who whilst I burn, she sings at my soul's wrack, Looking aloft from turret of her pride; There my soul's tyrant joys her in the sack Of her own seat, whereof I made her guide. There do these smokes that from affliction rise Serve as an incense to a cruel dame, A sacrifice thrice grateful to her eyes, Because their power serve to exact the same. Thus ruins she, to satisfy her will, The temple where her name was honored still. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS ON TAGORE by MARIANNE MOORE TWO SONGS OF A FOOL: 1 by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS LITTLE FEET by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN THE FORSAKEN MERMAN by MATTHEW ARNOLD SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ELSA WERTMAN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE EAGLE OF THE BLUE by HERMAN MELVILLE TELLING THE BEES (A COLONIAL CUSTOM) by LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE |