Through all the night Thou dost me fright, And hold'st mine eyes from sleeping; And day, by day, My Cup can say, My wine is mixt with weeping. Thou dost my bread With ashes knead, Each evening and each morrow: Mine eye and eare Do see, and heare The coming in of sorrow. Thy scourge of steele, (Ay me!) I feele, Upon me beating ever: While my sick heart With dismall smart Is disacquainted never. Long, long, I'm sure, This can't endure; But in short time 'twill please Thee, My gentle God, To burn the rod, O strike so as to ease me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COMIN' THRO' THE RYE by ROBERT BURNS GOOD AND BAD LUCK by HEINRICH HEINE A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 18 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN GEORGE WASHINGTON by JOHN HALL INGHAM CROSSING THE PLAINS by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER MYSTERY by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING SECOND FIDDLE by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON SONNET, TO THE AUTHOR OFR 'THE REVOLT OF ISLAM' by JOHN CHALK CLARIS |