Shall I go to Love and tell, Thou art all turn'd isicle? Shall I say her Altars be Disadorn'd, and scorn'd by thee? O beware! in time submit; Love has yet no wrathfull fit: If her patience turns to ire, Love is then consuming fire. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BLACK RIDERS: 38 by STEPHEN CRANE A MOTHER TO HER SICK CHILD by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES THE PROSPECTOR by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 21. THE WORLD'S MARRIAGE MORN by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) OUT OF THE SILENCE by S. MINERVA BOYCE THE HULDRA-WOMAN by STOPFORD AUGUSTUS BROOKE THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: THE SHORE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |