AT whiles (yea oftentimes) I muse over The quality of anguish that is mine Through Love: then pity makes my voice to pine, Saying, "Is any else thus, anywhere?" Love smiteth me, whose strength is ill to bear; So that of all my life is left no sign Except one thought; and that, because 'tis thine, Leaves not the body but abideth there. And then if I, whom other aid forsook, Would aid myself, and innocent of art Would fain have sight of thee as a last hope, No sooner do I lift mine eyes to look Than the blood seems as shaken from my heart, And all my pulses beat at once and stop. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE COLOR SERGEANT by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON AT THE ZOO IN SPAIN by CLARENCE MAJOR AUTUMN MOVEMENT by CARL SANDBURG O BLACK AND UNKNOWN BARDS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON I AM THE WAY' by ALICE MEYNELL TO THE MEN OF KENT by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE SEAMSTRESS by HENRI BARBUSSE |