Poems (Cromwell)/Compensation
For works with similar titles, see Compensation.
COMPENSATION
You never told me, never, yet I know You hold a sadness in disguise, unseen Behind the days and years that intervene Since you renounced ambition long ago. Whence comes the tender love that you bestow To feed our loves? Behind your self serene There burns a golden passion,—how you screen With radiant life the flame you must forego! Then you assume our love is ample meed, Atonement,—oh, I wonder any deed Of ours can ease your spirit's lassitude, Or lift your lonely heart! Our stars elude Your sun that made them bright—your solitude. Deprived, no boon avails to fill your need.