My silks and fine array,
My smiles and languish'd air,
By Love are driven away;
And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave:
Such end true lovers have.
His face is fair as heaven
When springing buds unfold:
O why to him was 't given,
Whose heart is wintry cold?
His breast is Love's all-worshipp'd tomb,
Where all Love's pilgrims come.
Bring me an axe and spade,
Bring me a winding-sheet;
When I my grave have made,
Let winds and tempests beat:
Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay:
True love doth pass away!
Song
William Blake
(1)
Poem topics: despair, heart, heaven, face, away, cold, bring, true, grave, love, I love you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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