What gladness and what joy
are endowed to one who is loved
for truly there is one to share
all his sufferings and his pain.
My fate is dim, my stars so low
perhaps nothing to it can compare,
for truly I do not doubt
for presently I suffer so.
For even I did love,
the beauty whom I desired
never do I fully realize
that I am worthy of her.
Shall I curse the hour
when first I saw the light of day
would it not have been better a thousand times
I had died when I was born.
Would I want to explain
but my tongue remains powerless
for now do I clearly see
to be spurned is my lot.
But would it be my greatest joy
to know that it is you I love,
for to you do I vow and a promise I make
it’s you alone for whom I would lay my life.
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Comments about this poem (Blasted Hopes by Leona Florentino )
(13-7-31 (see reverse))
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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Emily Jane Brontë
(30 July 1818 – 19 December 1848)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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