Poems (Rowe)/Cruel as the Grave
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
AH! dearest one! If you could see my heart,
All torn and bleeding with Love's vivid smart,
You'd comfort me; you'd heal me of my ache,
If not for mine, then for Sweet Pity's sake!
All torn and bleeding with Love's vivid smart,
You'd comfort me; you'd heal me of my ache,
If not for mine, then for Sweet Pity's sake!
Oh! do not think me weak, or overbold.
How can I live and see your heart grow cold
To me alone? For others all the flame
Of Love and Passion burning without shame!
How can I live and see your heart grow cold
To me alone? For others all the flame
Of Love and Passion burning without shame!
And yet I am that She you found so fair
To pleasure whom was once your only care,
Until you won me. Irony of Fate!
'Tis I that love! And now 'tis you that hate!
To pleasure whom was once your only care,
Until you won me. Irony of Fate!
'Tis I that love! And now 'tis you that hate!
Cruel? The Grave! Ah, no! a Friend most kind,
Soothing the broken heart, the maddened mind.
Dear God is good, and gives to all the chance
Of joining when we will Death's mazy dance.
Soothing the broken heart, the maddened mind.
Dear God is good, and gives to all the chance
Of joining when we will Death's mazy dance.