117. Wherein the Poet Argues with His Heart -
WHEREIN THE POET ARGUES WITH HIS HEART P .
What act, what dream possesses thee, my Soul?
Speak, is it parley, peace, or endless war? H .
Our fate is dark, but this is still in store:
We are in danger when her bright orbs roll. P .
What profit when those eyes at will control
Our spirits, till suns freeze and frosts burn sore? H .
Hers not the fault, since her love burns the more. P .
No good to me, when she withholds her dole. H .
How often, when the tongue is mute, the heart
Groans grievously! How often the calm look
Conceals the inward tear from the world's gaze! P .
Yet still the mind's despair cannot depart,
But stores its anguish like a stagnant brook,
For never hope this wretchedness shall raise.
What act, what dream possesses thee, my Soul?
Speak, is it parley, peace, or endless war? H .
Our fate is dark, but this is still in store:
We are in danger when her bright orbs roll. P .
What profit when those eyes at will control
Our spirits, till suns freeze and frosts burn sore? H .
Hers not the fault, since her love burns the more. P .
No good to me, when she withholds her dole. H .
How often, when the tongue is mute, the heart
Groans grievously! How often the calm look
Conceals the inward tear from the world's gaze! P .
Yet still the mind's despair cannot depart,
But stores its anguish like a stagnant brook,
For never hope this wretchedness shall raise.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.