HER, my own sad love divine, Did I pierce as with a knife, Stabbed with words that seemed not mine Her more dear to me than life. And she raised, she raised her head, Slow that smile, pale to the brow: "Lovely songs when I am dead You will make for me; but how Shall I hear them then?" she said, "Make them now, O make them now!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MARRIAGE OF HEAVEN AND HELL by WILLIAM BLAKE THE MYSTIC'S VISION by MATHILDE BLIND THE POLAR QUEST by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON SONNET TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE WITH A COPY OF HERRICK by EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE THE WHITE COMRADE (AFTER W.H. LEATHAM'S 'THE COMRADE IN WHIRE') by ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER |