My Heart Is Sick With Longing

My heart is sick with longing, tho' I feed
On hope; Time goes with such a heavy pace
That neither brings nor takes from thy embrace,
As if he slept—forgetting his old speed:
For, as in sunshine only we can read
The march of minutes on the dial's face,
So in the shadows of this lonely place
There is no love, and Time is dead indeed.
But when, dear lady, I am near thy heart,
Thy smile is time, and then so swift it flies,
It seems we only meet to tear apart,
With aching hands and lingering of eyes.
Alas, alas! that we must learn hours' flight
By the same light of love that makes them bright!

by Thomas Hood

Comments (4)

Very well put! Good write!
J'aime beaucoup! ce cynisme...! !
very well said.........go for yours.
Now don't go flaming me because you own a Mercedes... Chances are if your reading this, you're not aimed at. Right? Of course there are exceptions. I just haven't met any.