Here's my offering today:
The Burial of Love
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
His eyes in eclipse,
Pale-cold his lips,
The light of his hopes unfed,
Mute his tongue,
His bow unstrung
With the tears he hath shed,
Backward drooping his graceful head,
Love is dead:
His last arrow is sped;
He hath not another dart;
Go––carry him to his dark deathbed;
Bury him in the cold, cold heart––
Love is dead.
O truest love! art thou forlorn,
And unrevenged? thy pleasant wiles
Forgotten, and thine innocent joy?
Shall hollow-hearted apathy,
The cruellest form of perfect scorn,
With languor of most hateful smiles,
For ever write,
In the withered light
Of the tearless eye,
And epitaph that all may spy?
No! sooner she herself shall die.
For her the showers shall not fall,
Nor the round sun shine that shineth to all;
Her light shall into darkness change;
For her the green grass shall not spring,
Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing,
Till Love have his full revenge.
Request to Cupid for revenge of his unkind love
Behold, Love, thy power how she despiseth,
My grievous pain how little she regardeth.
The solemn oath whereof she takes no cure
Broken she hath and yet she bideth sure,
Right at her ease, and little thee she dreadeth.
Weaponed thou art and she unarmed sitteth.
To thee disdainful all her life she leadeth,
To me spiteful, without just cause or measure.
Behold, Love, how proudly she triumpheth;
I am in hold but if thee pity meveth.
Go bend thy bow that stony hearts breaketh,
And with some stroke revenge the great displeasure
Of thee, and him that sorrow doth endure
And as his Lord thee lowly here entreateth.
Sir Thomas Wyatt