Sometimes when I am wearied suddenly Of all the things that are the outward you, And my gaze wanders ere your tale is through To webs of my own weaving, or I see Abstractedly your hands about your knee And wonder why I love you as I do, Then I recall, "Yet @3Sorrow@1 thus he drew;" Then I consider, "@3Pride@1 thus painted he." Oh, friend, forget not, when you fain would note In me a beauty that was never mine, How first you knew me in a book I wrote, How first you loved me for a written line: So are we bound till broken is the throat Of Song, and Art no more leads out the Nine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BE TRUE [THYSELF] by HORATIO (HORATIUS) BONAR A WOMAN'S LAST WORD by ROBERT BROWNING A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER; THE ENGLISH GAME LAWS by CHARLES KINGSLEY THE DEATH OF AUTUMN by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY THE ONE LOST by ISAAC ROSENBERG CROSSING THE BAR by ALFRED TENNYSON PENTUCKET [AUGUST 29, 1708] by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER |