I dreamed that I was sick and sore at heart, Till weary of its aching, rash I said, 'Come hither fate, and end for me this strife.' The fate, in guise of one in armour, came And laid his mailed heavy hand on my breast, Crushing as with a vice, whereat I shrieked, And fain would have my troubles back, and cried, 'Youth's sharpest pangs are blunt compared to fate's. Unhand me, tyrant, let me be as erst.' But still the mailed hand pressed upon my heart, And still the pulse beat stronger for the pain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHAT WE SAID THE LIGHT SAID by JAMES GALVIN DEAD LEAVES by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON IN QUEST by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO JOHN BROWN by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE ARABIAN SHAWL by KATHERINE MANSFIELD |