Poetry Archives

I

O mother, I am sick of love,
 I cannot laugh nor lift my head,
My bitter dreams have broken me,
 I would my love were dead.

“Drink of the draught I brew for thee,
Thou shalt have quiet in its stead.”


  II

Where is the silver in the rain,
 Where is the music in the sea,
Where is the bird that sang all day
 To break my heart with melody?

“The night thou badst Love fly away,
He hid them all from thee.”