She says: "Poor friend, you waste a treasure Which you can ne'er regain-- Time, health, and glory, for the pleasure Of toying with a chain." But then her voice so tender grows, So kind and so caressing; Each murmur from her lips that flows Comes to me like a blessing. Sometimes she says: "Sweet friend, I grieve you-- Alas, it gives me pain! What can I? Ah, might I relieve you, You ne'er had mourned in vain!" And then her little hand she presses Upon her heart, and sighs; While tears whose source not yet she guesses, Grow larger in her eyes. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MAGRADY GRAHAM by EDGAR LEE MASTERS PLACES: 4. EVENING (NAHANT) by SARA TEASDALE A CHILD'S PRAYER [OR, HYMN] by MATILDA BARBARA BETHAM-EDWARDS WOMEN AND ROSES by ROBERT BROWNING FRAGMENT THIRTY-SIX by HILDA DOOLITTLE ON CATULLUS by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD; OCTOBER, 1861 by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL |