But is this love, that in my hollow breast Gnaws like a silent poison, till I faint? Is this the vision that the haggard saint Fed with his vigils, till he found his rest? Is this the hope that piloted thy quest, Knight of the Grail, and kept thy heart from taint? Is this the heaven, poets, that ye paint? Oh, then, how like damnation to be blest! This is not love: it is that worser thing -- Hunger for love, while love is yet to learn. Thy peace is gone, my soul; thou long must yearn. Long is thy winter's pilgrimage, till spring And late home-coming; long ere thou return To where the seraphs covet not, and burn. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...POETA FIT, NON NASCITUR by CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON LITTLE BOY BLUE by EUGENE FIELD ODE (MUSIC-MAKERS) by ARTHUR WILLIAM EDGAR O'SHAUGHNESSY TO A SKYLARK by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY LITTLE BELL by THOMAS WESTWOOD THE YOUTH OF MAN by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE COMPLAINT OF ANNELIDA TO FALSE ARCITE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |