Sixty-Five Sonnets With Prefatory Remarks on the Accordance of the Sonnet with the Powers of the English Language: Also, A Few Miscellaneous Poems [by Thomas Doubleday] |
 |
 |
|
STANZAS. |
 | Sixty-Five Sonnets |  |
105
STANZAS.
Yes, I have loved, like thee, what though
I live in such wild waste of soul,
And still at eve thou seest me go
To join the dance or drain the bowl.
These are to sorrow but relief,
Nor show a mind without annoy;
Wretches can revel; for the grief
That poisons peace but maddens joy.
I live in such wild waste of soul,
And still at eve thou seest me go
To join the dance or drain the bowl.
These are to sorrow but relief,
Nor show a mind without annoy;
Wretches can revel; for the grief
That poisons peace but maddens joy.
This heart hath known the pain that wrings
The hopeless. Though the name of her
Now cannot make me shrink, nor brings
My visage in one line to stir,
Ere this, though now the time's gone by,
That form, whatever joys might call,
Though wine was free and beauty nigh,
Still stood between and darken'd all.
The hopeless. Though the name of her
Now cannot make me shrink, nor brings
My visage in one line to stir,
106
That form, whatever joys might call,
Though wine was free and beauty nigh,
Still stood between and darken'd all.
'Tis past. Yet never thence infer,
Albeit, in sooth I do not know
If aught could draw a tear for her
From eyes that once adored her so.
That feeling hath expired, because
In ready drops it will not start,
For oh! 'tis keen as e'er it was,
But sunk more deeply in the heart.
Albeit, in sooth I do not know
If aught could draw a tear for her
From eyes that once adored her so.
That feeling hath expired, because
In ready drops it will not start,
For oh! 'tis keen as e'er it was,
But sunk more deeply in the heart.
E'en so. The grief that never dies
Will, when the first wild gust is past,
Retiring first from other's eyes,
E'en hide it from itself at last;
Close coil'd within the breast a snake,
In growing torpor slumbering,
Which he who bears learns not to wake,
And which, unwaken'd, will not sting.
Will, when the first wild gust is past,
Retiring first from other's eyes,
E'en hide it from itself at last;
107
In growing torpor slumbering,
Which he who bears learns not to wake,
And which, unwaken'd, will not sting.
| Sixty-Five Sonnets | |