An old man asked me: What is Love? I turned In mirth away, and would not answer him; He filled a cup of wine up to the brim, And yet no sparkling in its depths discerned. Methought a death fire in his weak eyes burned While he beholding brightness called it dim; He sat and chuckled: 'twas a ghastly whim In one whose spirit had so little learned. So shall it be with me; but so not I Shall question: certainly the blessed thought Of Love shall linger, when itself is gone. Oh nest of thorns for dove to brood upon! Oh painful throbbings of a heart untaught To rest when all its gladness goeth by! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MY MYRTLE [MIRTLE] by WILLIAM BLAKE SPECULA by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN A VISION OF POETS by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING GLIMPSES OF ITALY: 2. THE CLOISTER GARDEN AT CERTOSA by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON MICHELANGELO by RHYS CARPENTER |