Through all the night Thou dost me fright, And hold'st mine eyes from sleeping; And day, by day, My Cup can say, My wine is mixt with weeping. Thou dost my bread With ashes knead, Each evening and each morrow: Mine eye and eare Do see, and heare The coming in of sorrow. Thy scourge of steele, (Ay me!) I feele, Upon me beating ever: While my sick heart With dismall smart Is disacquainted never. Long, long, I'm sure, This can't endure; But in short time 'twill please Thee, My gentle God, To burn the rod, O strike so as to ease me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL HESTER PRYNNE? by KAREN SWENSON THE MAYFLOWERS by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION; A POEM. ENLARGED VERSION: BOOK 1 by MARK AKENSIDE SONNET: BARBERRIES by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH COME HOME by WILLIAM HERVEY ALLEN JR. |