  [Decorative images unavailable.] O SAY, thou wild, thou oft-deceived heart, What mean these noisy throbbings in my breast? After thy long, unutterable woe Wouldst thou not rest? Fall’n from Life’s tree the sweet rose-blossom lies, And fragrant youth has fled. What made to seem This earth as fair to thee as Paradise, Was all a dream. The blossom fell, the thorn was left to me; Deep from the wound the blood-drops ever flow, All that I have are yearnings, wild desires, And wrath and woe. They brought me Lethe’s water, saying, “Drink!” “Drink, for the draught is sweet,” I heard them say, “Shalt learn how soft a thing forgetting is.” I answered: “Nay. What tho’ indeed it were an idle cheat, Nathless to me ’twas very fair and blest: With every breath I draw I know that love Reigns in my breast. Let me go forth,—and thou, my heart, bleed on: A lonely spot I seek by night and day, That love and sorrow I may there breathe forth In a last lay. The Gresham Press, |
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