The storm-cloud, whose portentous shade Fumes from a core of smother'd fire, His livery is whose worshipp'd maid Denies herself to his desire. Ah, grief that almost crushes life, To lie upon his lonely bed, And fancy her another's wife! His brain is flame, his heart is lead. Sinking at last, by nature's course, Cloak'd round with sleep from his despair, He does but sleep to gather force That goes to his exhausted care. He wakes renew'd for all the smart. His only Love, and she is wed! His fondness comes about his heart, As milk comes, when the babe is dead. The wretch, whom she found fit for scorn, His own allegiant thoughts despise; And far into the shining morn Lazy with misery he lies. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FOOL, A FOUL THING, A DISTRESSFUL LUNATIC by MARIANNE MOORE THE BEACON; A MUSICAL DRAMA by JOANNA BAILLIE DON JUAN: DEDICATION [OR, INVOCATION] by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE HILL WIFE: THE IMPULSE by ROBERT FROST THE PALM TREE by ABD-AR RAHMAN I MIRACLE by LIBERTY HYDE BAILEY SPRING MORNING by MAVIS CLARE BARNETT ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT OF FIVE DAYS OLD by ELIZABETH BOYD WHOM EARTH HAS TAUGHT: REVELATION by MARGARET PERKINS BRIGGS |