Why do I speak of joy, or write of love, When my heart is the very den of horror, And in my soul the pains of Hell I prove, With all his torments and infernal terror? What should I say? What yet remains to do? My brain is dry with weeping all too long, My sighs be spent in uttering my woe, And I want words wherewith to tell my wrong; But, still distracted in Love's lunacy, And, bedlam-like, thus raging in my grief, Now rail upon her hair, then on her eye, Now call her Goddess, then I call her thief, Now I deny her, then I do confess her, Now do I curse her, then again I bless her. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ODE TO SPRING by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH by HAROLD MONRO LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE by ALFRED TENNYSON BILL'S LENGTH by ALEXANDER ANDERSON ON THE ENGINE AGAIN by ALEXANDER ANDERSON UNCLE AN' AUNT by WILLIAM BARNES ON THE EVE OF DEPARTURE FROM O-- by MATILDA BARBARA BETHAM-EDWARDS |