THEY who may tell love's wistful tale, Of half its cares are lighten'd; Their bark is tacking to the gale, The sever'd cloud is brighten'd. Love, like the silent stream, is found Beneath the willows lurking, The deeper, that it hath no sound To tell its ceaseless working. Submit, my heart; thy lot is cast, I feel its inward token; I feel this misery will not last, Yet last till thou art broken. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: STATE'S ATTORNEY FALLAS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS LOST ILLUSIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON CRITIC AND POET by EMMA LAZARUS ON A YOUNG LADY'S SIXTH ANNIVERSARY by KATHERINE MANSFIELD THE GREAT RACE PASSES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |