AT whiles (yea oftentimes) I muse over The quality of anguish that is mine Through Love: then pity makes my voice to pine, Saying, "Is any else thus, anywhere?" Love smiteth me, whose strength is ill to bear; So that of all my life is left no sign Except one thought; and that, because 'tis thine, Leaves not the body but abideth there. And then if I, whom other aid forsook, Would aid myself, and innocent of art Would fain have sight of thee as a last hope, No sooner do I lift mine eyes to look Than the blood seems as shaken from my heart, And all my pulses beat at once and stop. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REMEMBRANCE by EGMONT HEGEL ARENS THE IMPROVISATORE: LEOPOLD by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES CLOUD-CLIMBING by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON NATALIA'S RESURRECTION: 20 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT SONG: NOT A WORD by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT ON THE MARRIAGE OF THOMAS KILLIGREW & CECILIA CROFTS: MORNING STORMY by THOMAS CAREW TO HELEN KELLER by EDWARD RALPH CHEYNEY |