SINCE she, even she, for whom I lived, Sweet she by fate from me is torn, Why am not I of sense deprived, Forgetting I was ever born? Why should I languish, hating light? Better to sleep an endless night. Be it either true, or haply feigned, That some of Lethe's water write, 'Tis their best medicine that are pained. All thought to lose of past delight. O would my anguish vanish so! Happy are they that neither know. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON TALK OF PEACE AT THIS TIME by ROBERT FROST A PORTRAIT OF MY ROOF by JAMES GALVIN BEAUTY THAT IS NEVER OLD by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE DOLL BELIEVERS by CLARENCE MAJOR THE RAINY SEASON by CLARENCE MAJOR |