Sometimes when I am wearied suddenly Of all the things that are the outward you, And my gaze wanders ere your tale is through To webs of my own weaving, or I see Abstractedly your hands about your knee And wonder why I love you as I do, Then I recall, "Yet @3Sorrow@1 thus he drew;" Then I consider, "@3Pride@1 thus painted he." Oh, friend, forget not, when you fain would note In me a beauty that was never mine, How first you knew me in a book I wrote, How first you loved me for a written line: So are we bound till broken is the throat Of Song, and Art no more leads out the Nine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD by ROBERT BURNS A LAST PRAYER by HELEN MARIA HUNT FISKE JACKSON CURE FOR AFFLICTIONS by ARCHILOCHUS STANZAS IN THE MEMORY OF EDWARD QUILLINAN, ESQ. by MATTHEW ARNOLD A WOMAN'S ANSWER TO THE VAMPIRE by FELICIA BLAKE IF YOU PLAY A GAME OF CHANCE by WILLIAM BLAKE TO THE OBELISK DURING THE GREAT FROST, 1881 by MATHILDE BLIND |