Lays of Leisure Hours | ||
HOPELESSNESS.
Is there to these wild griefs no end?Shall Time not comfort and befriend?
Must these unbreathed, embosomed woes
Find neither limit nor repose?
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These torture-tempests of the mind,
Till Passion or its prey are past
The limits of their life at last,
Till Passion or its prey succumb
Still must I suffer—still the sum
Of my dark sorrows seek to increase,
As though the excess of pain brought peace!
Alas! 'tis false—it is not so—
We deaden not the sense of woe
By still imposing Cares on Cares—
Heaping Despairs upon Despairs!
The Heart is capable of All!
'Twill farther still, and farther fall!
And deeper drain, and deeper still,
The poisoned draughts—the dregs of Ill!
Lays of Leisure Hours | ||