 | Poems by Henry Septimus Sutton |  |
80
A LOVE-LETTER.
No; I cannot thank the care
That my feelings sought to spare.
Not compliment with compliment
Should deal, but man with man. You meant
To save me pain, and therefore bent
The truth aside. This goes, my friend,
Of all true love to make an end.
That my feelings sought to spare.
Not compliment with compliment
Should deal, but man with man. You meant
To save me pain, and therefore bent
The truth aside. This goes, my friend,
Of all true love to make an end.
Do you love me? Come then nigh me;
Prick me, man! Never relent!
Cut and hack and scarify me;—
If the truth can make me sore
Let me be a wound all o'er:—
Do this but with pure intent,
I am
Yours
For evermore.
Prick me, man! Never relent!
Cut and hack and scarify me;—
If the truth can make me sore
Let me be a wound all o'er:—
Do this but with pure intent,
I am
Yours
For evermore.
| Poems by Henry Septimus Sutton | |