Classic Poem

WHEREIN HIS ANGUISH BESEECHES PITY OR DEATH

Go, burning sighs, go to that frosty breast,
Split the dense ice which laughs at charity;
And if to mortal prayer high Heaven agree,
Let death or mercy put my grief at rest!
Go, tenderest thoughts! Reveal your tenderest
To her, Our Lady who disdains to see:
If still her pride, if still my destiny
Offend, we shall our mischief know at least.
Go in some perfect interval and tell
How dark, how desperate has been our woe,
While she remains unmoved and equable.
Go, then, assured, for Love is escort: go!
Fortune may turn: unwell may yet be well —
If that the aspect of the sun stand so!