 | Plays and poems |  |
432
[There is a sorrow underlies mere grief]
There is a sorrow underlies mere grief,A gnawing woe beyond the source of tears,
A weary pain with neither hopes nor fears,
A dull, dead load that cannot find relief
In running eyes, whose passions are as brief
As their o'erflowings. For each tear-drop clears
The heart from which it issues, and oft cheers
With sunny dew the gloomiest cypress-leaf.
But, ah! my care sticks ever at the heart,
Haunts every thought, and deadens every sense;
Sighs are in vain, tears come not, and the tense
Cords of existence strain, yet will not part
Their stubborn hold on earth. O! bitter smart,
To call thee mine, who must be ever hence.
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