The serpent is shut out from Paradise. The wounded deer must seek the herb no more In which its heart-cure lies: The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower Like that from which its mate with feigned sighs Fled in the April hour. I too must seldom seek again Near happy friends a mitigated pain. Of hatred I am proud, -- with scorn content; Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown Itself indifferent; But, not to speak of love, pity alone Can break a spirit already more than bent. The miserable one Turns the mind's poison into food, -- Its medicine is tears, -- its evil good. Therefore, if now I see you seldomer, Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fly Your looks, because they stir Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die: The very comfort that they minister I scarce can bear, yet I, So deeply is the arrow gone, Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn. When I return to my cold home, you ask Why I am not as I have ever been. You spoil me for the task Of acting a forced part in life's dull scene, -- Of wearing on my brow the idle mask Of author, great or mean, In the world's carnival. I sought Peace thus, and but in you I found it not. Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot With various flowers, and every one still said, 'She loves me -- loves me not.' And if this meant a vision long since fled -- If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of thought -- If it meant, -- but I dread To speak what you may know too well: Still there was truth in the sad oracle. The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home; No bird so wild but has its quiet nest, When it no more would roam; The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast Break like a bursting heart, and die in foam, And thus at length find rest: Doubtless there is a place of peace Where my weak heart and all its throbs will cease. I asked her, yesterday, if she believed That I had resolution. One who had Would ne'er have thus relieved His heart with words, -- but what his judgement bade Would do, and leave the scorner unrelieved. These verses are too sad To send to you, but that I know, Happy yourself, you feel another's woe. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...I HEAR AMERICA SINGING by WALT WHITMAN SONNET WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914: 3 by GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY THE SHIPS by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 2. ON THE WINTER SOLSTICE, 1740 by MARK AKENSIDE |