Classic Poem

None ever was in love with me but grief.
—She wooed me from the day that I was born;
She stole my playthings first, the jealous thief,
—And left me there forlorn.

The birds that in my garden would have sung,
—She scared away with her unending moan;
She slew my lovers too when I was young,
—And left me there alone.

Grief, I have cursed thee often—now at last
—To hate thy name I am no longer free;
Caught in thy bony arms and prisoned fast,
—I love no love but thee.