WHEN, cruel fair one, I am slain By thy disdain, And, as a trophy of thy scorn, To some old tomb am borne, Thy fetters must their power bequeath To those of Death; Nor can thy flame immortal burn, Like monumental fires within an urn; Thus freed from thy proud empire, I shall prove There is more liberty in Death than Love. And when forsaken Lovers come, To see my tomb, Take heed thou mix not with the crowd And (as a Victor) proud To view the spoils thy beauty made Press near my shade, Lest thy too cruel breath or name Should fan my ashes back into a flame, And thou, devour'd by this revengeful fire, His sacrifice, who died as thine, expire. [Or should my dust thy pity move That could not love, Thy sighs might wake me, and thy tears Renew my life and years. Or should thy proud insulting scorn Laugh at my urn, Kindly deceived by thy disdain, I might be smil'd into new life again. Then come not near, since both thy love and hate Have equal power to love or animate.] But if cold earth, or marble, must Conceal my dust, Whilst hid in some dark ruins, I Dumb and forgotten lie, The pride of all thy victory Will sleep with me; And they who should attest thy glory, Will, or forget, or not believe this story. Then to increase thy triumph, let me rest, Since by thine eye slain, buried in thy breast. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONGS OF INNOCENCE: INTRODUCTION by WILLIAM BLAKE TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN: THE FIRST DAY: ROBERT OF SICILY by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW FOR MY OWN TOMBSTONE by MATTHEW PRIOR SONNET TO THE MOON by HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS |