01.05.2012, 11:29
The End
IT must be so. My dream is at an end,
And sorrow hangs upon me as a cloud
About a mountain peak that towers proud
And stern in cold grey dawnings. Shall I bend,
Like the wild oak when vexed with wind, and send
A plaintive wail to pierce the gloomy shroud
Of misty air? - be weak, and weep aloud
For that which all my tears may not amend?
No! kindest of all cruel tortures,
Dull and half-dead your safe advice appears
Because the blood is surging at my ears
And feverous madness in my being stirs
Until I scarce dare trust myself. And yet
I love you: Is there room, then, for regret?
IT must be so. My dream is at an end,
And sorrow hangs upon me as a cloud
About a mountain peak that towers proud
And stern in cold grey dawnings. Shall I bend,
Like the wild oak when vexed with wind, and send
A plaintive wail to pierce the gloomy shroud
Of misty air? - be weak, and weep aloud
For that which all my tears may not amend?
No! kindest of all cruel tortures,
Dull and half-dead your safe advice appears
Because the blood is surging at my ears
And feverous madness in my being stirs
Until I scarce dare trust myself. And yet
I love you: Is there room, then, for regret?