MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
O, if you felt the pain I feel!
But O, who ever felt as I?
No longer could I doubt him true—
All other men may use deceit;
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet.
About the poet |
Walter Savage Landor |
By the same poet |
The Maid's Lament |
Rose Aylmer |
Ianthe |
Twenty Years hence |
Verse |
Proud Word you never spoke |
Resignation |
Autumn |
Remain! |
Absence |
Of Clementina |
Ianthe's Question |
On Catullus |
Dirce |
Alciphron and Leucippe |
Years |
Separation |
Late Leaves |
Finis |
Related books |
Walter Savage Landor at amazon.co.uk |