SHE press'd her slight hand to her brow, or pain Or bitter thoughts were passing there. The room Had no light but that from the fireside, Which show'd, then hid, her face. How very pale It look'd, when over it the glimmer shone! Is not the rose companion of the spring? Then wherefore has the red-leaf'd flower forgotten Her cheek? The tears stood in her large dark eyes -- Her beautiful dark eyes -- like hyacinth stars, When shines their shadowy glory through the dew That summer nights have wept; -- she felt them not, Her heart was far away! Her fragile form, Like the young willow when for the first time The wind sweeps o'er it rudely, had not lost Its own peculiar grace; but it was bow'd By sickness, or by worse than sickness -- sorrow! And this is Love! -- Oh! why should woman love; Wasting her dearest feelings, till health, hope, Happiness, are but things of which henceforth She'll only know the name? Her heart is sear'd: A sweet light has been thrown upon its life, To make its darkness the more terrible. And this is Love! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE REVENGE OF HAMISH by SIDNEY LANIER TO A CONTEMPORARY BUNKSHOOTER by CARL SANDBURG SPRING WATER by KENNETH SLADE ALLING INVITATION by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS THE AUTHOR OF 'THE GREAT ILLUSION' by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |