SINCE she, even she, for whom I lived, Sweet she by fate from me is torn, Why am not I of sense deprived, Forgetting I was ever born? Why should I languish, hating light? Better to sleep an endless night. Be it either true, or haply feigned, That some of Lethe's water write, 'Tis their best medicine that are pained. All thought to lose of past delight. O would my anguish vanish so! Happy are they that neither know. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN A BURYING GROUND by SARA TEASDALE ON THE DEATH OF CYNTHIA'S HORSE by PHILIP AYRES TO BESSIE HAWES, MAY QUEEN by ANNA EMILIA BAGSTAD SONNET ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN JANUARY by ROBERT BURNS A MIRACLE by AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR KATRINA ON THE PORCH; A BIT OF TURNER PUT INTO WORDS by ALICE CARY |