O fate, O fault, O curse, child of my bliss; What sobs can give words grace my grief to show? What ink is black enough to paint my woe? Through me, wretch me, even Stella vexed is. Yet truth -- if caitiff's breath might call thee -- this Witness with me, that my foul stumbling so From carelessness did in no manner grow; But wit, confused with too much care, did miss. And do I then myself this vain 'scuse give? I have (live I, and know this?) harmed thee; Though worlds 'quit me, shall I myself forgive? Only with pains my pains thus eased be, That all my hurts in my heart's wrack I read; I cry thy sighs; my dear, thy tears I bleed. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: HENRY BAKER, AT NEW YORK by EDGAR LEE MASTERS PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES by FRANCIS BRET HARTE A FAREWELL [TO C.E.G.] by CHARLES KINGSLEY THE NEW EZEKIEL by EMMA LAZARUS THE NINE LITTLE GOBLINS by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY TO TWO BEREAVED by THOMAS ASHE THE TULIP AND THE LILY, SELECTION by JAMES BARCLAY SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 17. THE CHILD by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |