John William Inchbold

(1830-1888 / England)


I sing of love that has been sung before,
I tell the oldest tale of all the world;
But new or old, I sing yet more and more,
For passion's force within the heart once hurled,
Can but be stayed by passion's Potentate,
Nor can he his own innocents destroy.
And while I feel of love the sweetness great,
I nurse the pain as an impatient boy
The future, knowing not what grief must be:
Thus love exists by interchange of pain
With painful bliss, for both are given to me;
Love changing bliss to woe, and then again
Love's woe to bliss is changed, until at last
Love's passion conquereth, and pain is past.

Submitted: Wednesday, October 13, 2010

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