638
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821
Can break a spirit already more than bent.
The miserable one
Turns the mind's poison into food,— 15
Its medicine is tears,—its evil good.
The miserable one
Turns the mind's poison into food,— 15
Its medicine is tears,—its evil good.
III
Therefore, if now I see you seldomer.
Dear friends, dear friend![1] know that I only fly
Your looks, because they stir
Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die: 20
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Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn.
Therefore, if now I see you seldomer.
Dear friends, dear friend![1] know that I only fly
Your looks, because they stir
Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die: 20
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Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn.
IV
When I return to my cold home, you ask 25
Why I am not as I have ever[2] been.
You spoil me for the task
Of acting a forced part in[3] life's dull scene,—
Of wearing on my brow the idle mask
Of author, great or mean, 30
In the world's carnival. I sought
Peace thus, and but in you I found it not.
When I return to my cold home, you ask 25
Why I am not as I have ever[2] been.
You spoil me for the task
Of acting a forced part in[3] life's dull scene,—
Of wearing on my brow the idle mask
Of author, great or mean, 30
In the world's carnival. I sought
Peace thus, and but in you I found it not.
V
Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot
With various flowers, and every one still said,
'She loves me—loves me not.' 35
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. 40
Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot
With various flowers, and every one still said,
'She loves me—loves me not.' 35
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. 40
VI
The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home;
No bird so wild but has its quiet nest,
When[4] it no more would roam;
The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast
Break like a bursting heart, and die in foam, 45
And thus at length find rest:
Doubtless there is a place of peace
Where my weak heart and all its throbs will[5] cease.
The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home;
No bird so wild but has its quiet nest,
When[4] it no more would roam;
The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast
Break like a bursting heart, and die in foam, 45
And thus at length find rest:
Doubtless there is a place of peace
Where my weak heart and all its throbs will[5] cease.
VII
I asked her, yesterday, if she believed
That I had resolution. One who had 50
Would ne'er have thus relieved
I asked her, yesterday, if she believed
That I had resolution. One who had 50
Would ne'er have thus relieved