SAD Lover, thou who to thy cruel saint, Didst teach thy Muse to breathe thy last complaint, Whilst thou the ends that sex aim'd at mad'st known, Methought I heard thee thus to speak thy own; Lo! hear the glory of all women's pride, The matchless trophy of their beauties' might, To kill by treason, and hid fires provide Those to devour whom they do most invite; Poor injur'd ashes! you too late have try'd, How ill they do the gentlest hearts requite; O that in beauties should those flames be known, Which burn our breasts, yet never warm their own! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COLORS by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET EVENING IN A SUGAR ORCHARD by ROBERT FROST ISOLATION by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON MATE (2) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON WE FACE THE FUTURE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO WHISTLER, AMERICAN; ON LOAN EXHIBIT OF PAINTINGS AT TATE GALLERY by EZRA POUND |