A BLIGHT, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my gladness -- Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of madness; A fear that is not fear, a pain that has not pain's in-sistence; A sense of longing, or of loss, in some foregone existence; A subtle hurt that never pen has writ nor tongue has spoken -- Such hurt perchance as Nature feels when a blossomed bough is broken. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BEARS AT RASPBERRY TIME by HAYDEN CARRUTH O DREAMS, O DESTINATIONS by CECIL DAY LEWIS THE MERCY OF LAZARUS by STEPHEN DOBYNS PENMAEN POOL by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS TO MR. BARBAULD, NOVEMBER 14, 1778 by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |