He is stark mad, who ever says, That he hath been in love an hour, Yet not that love so soon decays, But that it can ten in less space devour; Who will believe me, if I swear That I have had the plague a year? Who would not laugh at me, if I should say, I saw a flask of powder burn a day? Ah, what a trifle is a heart, If once into love's hands it come! All other griefs allow a part To other griefs, and ask themselves but some; They come to us, but us Love draws, He swallows us, and never chaws: By him, as by chain'd shot, whole ranks do die, He is the tyrant Pike, our hearts the Fry. If 'twere not so, what did become Of my heart, when I first saw thee? I brought a heart into the room, But from the room, I carried none with me: If it had gone to thee, I know Mine would have taught thine heart to show More pity unto me: but Love, alas, At one first blow did shiver it as glass. Yet nothing can to nothing fall, Nor any place be empty quite, Therefore I think my breast hath all Those pieces still, though they be not unite; And now as broken glasses show A hundred lesser faces, so My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore, But after one such love, can love no more. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT by EUGENE FIELD AFTER MUSIC by JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY AN ESSAY ON MAN by ALEXANDER POPE THE TOKEN by FRANK TEMPLETON PRINCE COCK-CROW by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS LEAVES A-VALLEN by WILLIAM BARNES THE LAST LULLABY by HENRY BATAILLE |