Like to an hermit poor, in place obscure, I mean to spend my days in endless doubt, To wail such woes as time cannot recure, Where none but Love shall ever find me out. My food shall be of care and sorrow made, My drink nought else but tears fall'n from mine And for my light, in such obscured shade, The flames shall serve that from my heart arise. A gown of grief my body shall attire; And broken hope the staff of all my stay; Of late repentance, linked with long desire, The couch is made wherein my limbs I'll lay; And at my gate despair shall linger still, To let in death when Love and fortune will. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ROCK ME TO SLEEP by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN JABBERWOCKY by CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON HAIL COLUMBIA by JOSEPH HOPKINSON POEMS ON THE SLAVE TRADE: 6 by ROBERT SOUTHEY BLOOD ON THE WHEEL by ALEXANDER ANDERSON TO MY TOTEM by HENRY CHARLES BEECHING RECALLED by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |