My Heart Is Like A Withered Nut!

Poem By Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton

MY heart is like a withered nut,
Rattling within its hollow shell;
You cannot ope my breast, and put
Any thing fresh with it to dwell.
The hopes and dreams that filled it when
Life's spring of glory met my view,
Are gone! and ne'er with joy or pain
That shrunken heart shall swell anew.

My heart is like a withered nut;
Once it was soft to every touch,
But now 'tis stern and closely shut;--
I would not have to plead with such.
Each light-toned voice once cleared my brow,
Each gentle breeze once shook the tree
Where hung the sun-lit fruit, which now
Lies cold, and stiff, and sad, like me!

My heart is like a withered nut--
It once was comely to the view;
But since misfortune's blast hath cut,
It hath a dark and mournful hue.
The freshness of its verdant youth
Nought to that fruit can now restore;
And my poor heart, I feel in truth,
Nor sun, nor smile shall light it more!

Comments about My Heart Is Like A Withered Nut!

And my poor heart, I feel in truth, Nor sun, nor smile shall light it more! ....so touching and impressive. It is a brilliant poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton.
She might as well be a prisoner locked in a windowless cell- -the normal love-filled life of a well-married woman is not hers and is not apt to ever be... until her betraying husband dies at which time she will probably be too old to rise again and unfortunately too bitter to realize there are men who would love her truely and well.
brimming with sorrow and anguish. compelling read
Heart of a poet is more tender than petal of a flower. it can realise all ups and downs of life. lovely ink.


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Other poems of NORTON

I Was Not False To Thee

I WAS not false to thee, and yet
My cheek alone looked pale;
My weary eye was dim and wet,

As When From Dreams Awaking

AS when from dreams awaking
The dim forms float away
Whose visioned smiles were making
Our darkness bright as day;

Dreams

SURELY I heard a voice-surely my name
Was breathed in tones familiar to my heart!
I listened-and the low wind stealing came,

Dedication

ONCE more, my harp! once more, although I thought
Never to wake thy silent strings again,
A wandering dream thy gentle chords have wrought,

Edward

HEAVY is my trembling heart, mine own love, my dearest,
Heavy as the hearts whose love is poured in vain;