Author Sir William Watson I HATE the cold, void, desert heart, That feels no human painWhen to their doom fair things depart, To charm not Earth again.Heart out of husks and offal made, Thy presence will sufficeTo cast o'er Hell a drearier shade, Or poison Paradise. Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments