 | Poems |  |
III.
But is not Sadness in her air,
And on her brow a tinge of Care?
And feels she then that Weariness
Which repose can make no less?
Without fatigue, that Want of Rest,
For aching heart, and weary breast?
And does she prove that dear Distress,
The workings of sweet bitterness—
The crave—the void—the restlessness?
The darling Woe which 'tis a pain
To relinquish or retain?
And on her brow a tinge of Care?
And feels she then that Weariness
Which repose can make no less?
Without fatigue, that Want of Rest,
For aching heart, and weary breast?
134
The workings of sweet bitterness—
The crave—the void—the restlessness?
The darling Woe which 'tis a pain
To relinquish or retain?
And does she fondly, sadly cherish
Thoughts that drain Life's fountains dry,
With obstinate love resolved to perish,
Ere her heart's poor nestlings die?
And does she nurse the Pelican-brood
Of Wishes not to be withstood,
Which, like that Desert-winger's young,
Too often drain the dear life-blood
That warms the breast from which they sprung?—
Thoughts that drain Life's fountains dry,
With obstinate love resolved to perish,
Ere her heart's poor nestlings die?
And does she nurse the Pelican-brood
Of Wishes not to be withstood,
Which, like that Desert-winger's young,
Too often drain the dear life-blood
That warms the breast from which they sprung?—
Alas! that ever Pleasure paineth!
That Woe so deep such Joy containeth!
And well-a-day! that ever Gladness
Should be but a phase of Sadness!
That Woe so deep such Joy containeth!
And well-a-day! that ever Gladness
Should be but a phase of Sadness!
| Poems | |