The Fruit of all the service that I serve

The fruit of all the service that I serve
Despair doth reap, such hapless hap have I.
But though he have no power to make me swerve,
Yet, by the fire, for cold I feel I die.
In paradise, for hunger still I sterve;
And, in the flood, for thirst to death I dry.
So Tantalus am I, and in worse pain
Amids my help, and helpless doth remain.
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.