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.
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.