WOUNDED am I, yet happier -- happier far Than they who have not felt the precious sting! Poor feet that bleed not with this wandering! Poor hands that burn not, plucking at a star! Poor hearts unblessed and whole! I bear the scar Of a too piercing loveliness. The thing Hung out of reach I touched, and now I sing Mad with delight, more blessed than others are. For since the blushing and ethereal hour When loveliness upon my heart was born, When I was stricken by her magic power, I run -- I run -- wild, ecstasied, forlorn, For beauty, when I go to pluck her flower, Pierces my willing bosom with a thorn. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONG FOR THE LONDON VOLUNTEERS by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD EPITAPH by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THIRD REUNION POEM by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE SOCIAL JUSTICE by ERNEST BRADLEY THE FOUR SEASONS OF THE YEAR by ANNE BRADSTREET ABER STATIONS: STATIO TERTIA by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |