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 |
|
| 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 |
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