A perfect love is nourished by despair. I am thy pupil in the school of pain; Mine eyes will not reproach thee for disdain, But thank thy rich disdain for being fair. Aye! the proud sorrow, the eternal prayer Thy beauty taught, what shall unteach again? Hid from my sight, thou livest in my brain; Fled from my bosom, thou abidest there. And though they buried thee, and called thee dead, And told me I should never see thee more, The violets that grew above thy head Would waft thy breath and tell thy sweetness o'er, And every rose thy scattered ashes bred Would to my sense thy loveliness restore. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CLOTHES by JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER TO A FRIEND by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD THE RETIREMENT; TO MR. IZAAK WALTON by CHARLES COTTON THE LIFE OF MAN by FRANCIS BACON ASPIRATIONS: 6 by MATHILDE BLIND INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST by VINCENT BOURNE |