 | Later Poems |  |
53
II
Alas for the mortality of grief!
Next year, perhaps, and next year I may shun
The full sweet life of things beneath the sun,
But only now am I of mourners chief.
Too soon I shall have drunken Time's relief!
A little while, and healing will have run
Through every vein, forgetfulness begun!
O Love, dead Love, that woe should be so brief!
Next year, perhaps, and next year I may shun
The full sweet life of things beneath the sun,
But only now am I of mourners chief.
Too soon I shall have drunken Time's relief!
A little while, and healing will have run
Through every vein, forgetfulness begun!
O Love, dead Love, that woe should be so brief!
And shall this be indeed the end of all?
The sleepy drench of Time to soothe and lull
Into the calm that now I shudder from?
This hand, which felt thy bosom throb, to cull
Flowers from thy grave for memory-coronal?
O Love, that to this fashion Grief should come!
The sleepy drench of Time to soothe and lull
Into the calm that now I shudder from?
This hand, which felt thy bosom throb, to cull
Flowers from thy grave for memory-coronal?
O Love, that to this fashion Grief should come!
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