Classic Poem

Thy love permits not my complaint to rise,
It reaches to my lips, and then it dies.
Now, helpless heart, I cannot aid thee more,
And thus for thee God's pity must implore.

Seest thou not how much disgrace and pain
The scornful world has heaped upon us twain,
On thee for beauty and the sins thereof,
On me for this infirmity of love.

Oft-times she will not speak to me at all,
Or if she deign to speak, the words that fall
Cold from her haughty lips are words of blame:—
—I know thee not—I have not heard thy name!

Deep in my memory was graved the trace
Of all I suffered since I saw thy face;
But now, Belovéd, thou hast come to me,
I have erased the record utterly.

With empty hands all mortal men are whirled
Through Death's grim gate into the other world
This is my pride that it is granted me
To carry with me my desire for thee.

They say when I complain of all I bore
—It is thy kismet, what would'st thou have more?
My rivals also bear thy tyranny,
Saying—It is her custom and must be!