 | Love-Sonnets |  |
55
XLVII.
[Is not this cruel that thou, poor child, must look]
Is not this cruel that thou, poor child, must lookUpon my torment; thou whose piteous breast
Would heave at sight of a bird's rifled nest;
Thou, whom with violent sobs the tear-storm took
But at a tale of sorrow in a book;
And canst not give me my soul's one request,
The true assurance that thou lov'st me best,
The heart another's ruthless treachery took.
We are as famished mariners on a wreck,
And sit and stare into each others eyes,
Helpless to give the draught they dumbly crave;
Beneath us but the dry and sapless deck,
Above us but the bare and burning skies,
And all the while we drift towards the grave.
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