Classic Poem

VAINLY HE SOLICITS DEATH

Had I believed that Death could set me free
From the sharp amorous thought which is my wound,
With my own hands deep, deep in the dark ground
I should long since have buried wound and me.
But, in the dread it would lead presently
From tears to tears, from wars that now abound
To others; that both ways Death would confound,
Half here, alas, half in eternity! —
Ah me, high time it were that Death had sped
The final arrow from that furious bow
With many another's blood so often red;
And I beg Love and Death to deal the blow —
Death heeds not, though his colours stain my head;
He neither bids me come nor bids me go.