Is it this weary and most constant heart, Or only these unquiet nerves, that start And tremble if I do but think of you? I know not, but I would to God I knew. Had I not once a half-delicious grief, When I believed in you against belief? But now, when I must doubt your word, your kiss, When each remembered rapture murmurs "This Was when she lied, and this was when she lied," Yet even doubt is by some doubt denied; Now, when the madness comes down like a flood, Poisoning the honest currents of my blood, Is it desire, love, or this madness, most That aches in me, to know that you are lost? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO ANTHEA [WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING] by ROBERT HERRICK ODE TO THE WEST WIND by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY THE OLD HOKUM BUNCOMBE by ROBERT EMMET SHERWOOD THE MOON by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON THE WALLABOUT MARTYRS by WALT WHITMAN ODE; SUNG BY THE CHILDREN OF THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS by W. T. ADAMS IN VINCULIS; SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: GOD IS MY WITNESS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT LES BARICADES MISTERIEUSES (AFTER FRANCOIS COUPERIN) by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |