Poems By Mary Elizabeth Coleridge |
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| XXX. |
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| XLIX. |
| L. |
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| LV. |
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| LIX. |
| LX. |
| LXI. |
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| LXIII. |
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| LXV. |
| LXVI. |
| LXVII. |
| LXVIII. |
| LXIX. |
| LXX. |
| LXXI. |
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| LXXIII. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXV. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
 | LXXXI. |
| LXXXII. |
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| LXXXIV. |
| LXXXV. |
| LXXXVI. |
| LXXXVII. |
| LXXXVIII. |
| LXXXIX. |
| XC. |
| XCI. |
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| XCV. |
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| C. |
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| CV. |
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| CIX. |
| CX. |
| CXI. |
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| CXV. |
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| CXIX. |
| CXX. |
| CXXI. |
| CXXII. |
| CXXIII. |
| CXXIV. |
| CXXV. |
| CXXVI. |
| CXXVII. |
| CXXVIII. |
| CXXIX. |
| CXXX. |
| CXXXI. |
| CXXXII. |
| CXXXIII. |
| CXXXIV. |
| CXXXV. |
| CXXXVI. |
| CXXXVII. |
| CXXXVIII. |
| CXXXIX. |
| CXL. |
| CXLI. |
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| CXLIII. |
| CXLIV. |
| CXLV. |
| CXLVI. |
| CXLVII. |
| CLXVIII. |
| CXLIX. |
| CL. |
| CLI. |
| CLII. |
| CLIII. |
| CLIV. |
| CLV. |
| CLVI. |
| CLVII. |
| CLVIII. |
| CLIX. |
| CLX. |
| CLXI. |
| CLXII. |
| CLXIII. |
| CLXIV. |
| CLXV. |
| CLXVI. |
| CLXVII. |
| CLXVIII. |
| CLXIX. |
| CLXX. |
| CLXXI. |
| CLXXII. |
| CLXXIII. |
| CLXXIV. |
| CLXXV. |
| CLXXVI. |
| CLXXVII. |
| CLXXVIII. |
| CLXXIX. |
| CLXXX. |
| CLXXXI. |
| CLXXXII. |
| CLXXXIII. |
| CLXXXIV. |
| CLXXXV. |
| CLXXXVI. |
| CLXXXVII. |
| CLXXXVIII. |
| CLXXXIX. |
| CXC. |
| CXCI. |
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| CXCV. |
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| CXCIX. |
| CC. |
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| CCVI. |
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| CCIX. |
| CCX. |
| CCXI. |
| CCXII. |
| CCXIII. | CCXIIIHELPLESS |
| CCXIV. |
| CCXV. |
| CCXVI. |
| CCXVII. |
| CCXVIII. |
| CCXIX. |
| CCXX. |
| CCXXI. |
| CCXXII. |
| CCXXIII. |
| CCXXIV. |
| CCXXV. |
| CCXXVI. |
| CCXXVII. |
| CCXXVIII. |
| CCXXIX. |
| CCXXX. |
| CCXXXI. |
| CCXXXII. |
| CCXXXIII. |
| CCXXXIV. |
| CCXXXV. |
| CCXXXVI. |
| CCXXXVII. |
 | Poems |  |
197
CCXIII
HELPLESS
Only for thee I fly the joyful sun
And mar the gladsome features of the day;
But labour lost is all this labour done,
My travail gives thee not an hour of play.
My sleepless nights I consecrate to thee,
Thou canst not sleep the sounder, Love, for me.
And mar the gladsome features of the day;
But labour lost is all this labour done,
My travail gives thee not an hour of play.
My sleepless nights I consecrate to thee,
Thou canst not sleep the sounder, Love, for me.
My striving cannot bring thee rest from strife,
Nor all my weariness one moment's ease;
Thou hast a secret bitterness to wife.
Love's born of woes, but not such woes as these.
Last woe of all, my life for thee I give,
But dying, I can never make thee live.
Nor all my weariness one moment's ease;
Thou hast a secret bitterness to wife.
Love's born of woes, but not such woes as these.
Last woe of all, my life for thee I give,
But dying, I can never make thee live.
| Poems | |