THE LONELINESS OF SORROW.
43
"Sweet love, lost love, I know now why I live
And could not die, the days I wished me dead;
O love, all strength of life and joy I give
Thee back! Ah me, that I have dared to strive
With fates that bore me to this one sure bliss,
Thou couldst not rob me, O lost love, of this?"—
And could not die, the days I wished me dead;
O love, all strength of life and joy I give
Thee back! Ah me, that I have dared to strive
With fates that bore me to this one sure bliss,
Thou couldst not rob me, O lost love, of this?"—
Hadst thou said this, Œnone, though he went
Bounding with life, thy life, and left thee there
Dying and glad, such sudden pain had rent
His heart, that even beating in the fair
White arms of Helen, hid in her sweet hair,
It had made always moan, in strange unrest,
"Œnone's love was greater love, was best."
Bounding with life, thy life, and left thee there
Dying and glad, such sudden pain had rent
His heart, that even beating in the fair
White arms of Helen, hid in her sweet hair,
It had made always moan, in strange unrest,
"Œnone's love was greater love, was best."
["Paris, the son of Priam, was wounded by one of the poisoned arrows of Hercules that Philoctetes bore to the siege of Troy, whereupon he had himself borne up into Ida, that he might see the nymph Œnone, whom he once had loved, because she who knew many secret things alone could heal him; but when he had seen her and spoken with her, she would deal with the matter in no wise, whereupon Pans died of that hurt."]
THE LONELINESS OF SORROW.
RIENDS crowd around and take it by the hand,Intruding gently on its loneliness,
Striving with word of love and sweet caress
To draw it into light and air. Like band
Of brothers, all men gather close, and stand
About it, making half its grief their own,
Leaving it never silent nor alone.
