Poor wretch! that smites, in his despair insane, The tender mouth for which he has no bread, And in some lonely spot, ere it be dead, Covers the little corse, yet warm, ill-slain: So I struck down dear Love for being born! I smoothed the limbs, and closed the eyes, and lone The darling form was left, 'neath ponderous stones; Then, at my deed dismayed, I fled forlorn. I deemed my love was dead indeed, in vain! Erect he speaks, close by the open tomb, 'Mid April lilacs even there in bloom, With immortelles his pale brow glorified: "Thou didst but wound; I live to seek her side; Not by thy hand, not thine, can I be slain!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |