Poems (Stoddard)/"I love you, but a sense of pain"
"I LOVE YOU, BUT A SENSE OF PAIN."
I LOVE you, but a sense of painIs in my heart and in my brain;Now, when your voice and eyes are kind,May I reveal my complex mind?
Though I am yours, it is my curseSome ideal passion to rehearse:I dream of one that's not like you,Never of one that 's half so true.
To quell these yearnings, vague and wild,I often kneel by our dear child,In still, dark nights (you are asleep),And bold his hands, and try to weep.
I cannot weep; I cannot pray—Why grow so pale, and turn away?Do you expect to hold me fastBy pretty legends in the past?
It is a woman's province, then,To be content with what has been?To wear the wreath of withered flowers,That crowned her in the bridal hours?
Still, I am yours: this idle strifeStirs but the surface of my life:And if you would but ask once more,"How goes the heart?" or at the door
Imploring stand, and knock again,I might forget this sense of pain,And down oblivion's sullen streamWould float the memory of my dream!