But is this love, that in my hollow breast Gnaws like a silent poison, till I faint? Is this the vision that the haggard saint Fed with his vigils, till he found his rest? Is this the hope that piloted thy quest, Knight of the Grail, and kept thy heart from taint? Is this the heaven, poets, that ye paint? Oh, then, how like damnation to be blest! This is not love: it is that worser thing -- Hunger for love, while love is yet to learn. Thy peace is gone, my soul; thou long must yearn. Long is thy winter's pilgrimage, till spring And late home-coming; long ere thou return To where the seraphs covet not, and burn. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HILL WIFE: THE IMPULSE by ROBERT FROST GLADYS AND HER ISLAND; AN IMPERFECT TALE WITH DOUBTFUL MORAL by JEAN INGELOW THE TROOPS by SIEGFRIED SASSOON THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852 by ALFRED TENNYSON AN AUTOGRAPH (1) by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET by SAMUEL WOODWORTH |