| 16th May 2012✧15:10
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I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness,
In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death—
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:
If it could weep, it could arise and go.
-Elizabeth Barret Browning
| 23rd Apr 2012✧23:006 notes
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| 23rd Apr 2012✧22:2310 notes
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| 23rd Apr 2012✧21:423 notes
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| 18th Apr 2012✧19:241 note
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| 18th Apr 2012✧19:23
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| 14th Apr 2012✧11:29
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| 13th Apr 2012✧19:27
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| 13th Apr 2012✧19:10
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| 2nd Apr 2012✧23:181 note
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| 31st Mar 2012✧22:268 notes
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| 28th Mar 2012✧23:24115 notes
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| 28th Mar 2012✧23:2234 notes
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I loved thee once; I’ll love no more—
Thine be the grief as is the blame;
Thou art not what thou wast before,
What reason I should be the same?
He that can love unloved again,
Hath better store of love than brain:
God send me love my debts to pay,
While unthrifts fool their love away!
Nothing could have my love o’erthrown
If thou hadst still continued mine;
Yea, if thou hadst remain’d thy own,
I might perchance have yet been thine.
But thou thy freedom didst recall
That it thou might elsewhere enthral:
And then how could I but disdain
A captive’s captive to remain?
When new desires had conquer’d thee
And changed the object of thy will,
It had been lethargy in me,
Not constancy, to love thee still.
Yea, it had been a sin to go
And prostitute affection so:
Since we are taught no prayers to say
To such as must to others pray.
Yet do thou glory in thy choice—
Thy choice of his good fortune boast;
I’ll neither grieve nor yet rejoice
To see him gain what I have lost:
The height of my disdain shall be
To laugh at him, to blush for thee;
To love thee still, but go no more
A-begging at a beggar’s door
~ Sir Robert Ayton
