Poetry Archives

  Piteous my rhyme is
What while I muse of love and pain,
Of love misspent, of love in vain,
Of love that is not loved again:
  And is this all then?
  As long as time is,
Love loveth. Time is but a span,
The dalliance space of dying man:
And is this all immortals can?
  The gain were small then.

  Love loves for ever,
And finds a sort of joy in pain,
And gives with nought to take again,
And loves too well to end in vain:
  Is the gain small then?
  Love laughs at “never”,
Outlives our life, exceeds the span
Appointed to mere mortal man:
All which love is and does and can
  Is all in all then.