The unkindest of human dread
That can oft hit a man of earth
Scarce of flesh be, nor is blood red,
Which, he’s learnt not to live in dearth.
Faults of flesh can well be treated,
If not cured, alleviated;
But none has a hospital made
To cure the pain of loneliness,
None has medicines invented
For despair, as for hopelessness;
Many a man may die for bread—
A mere morsel, a roof above—
More die of hearts not beating red,
And die starv’d of a little love!
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This sonnet takes a slightly unusual design.
It has tetra-chords of eight/nine syllables
instead of the usual penta-meter. The lines
are iambic.
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- Sonnets | 08.12.08 |
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Chain of life! To cure the pain of loneliness. Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
This poem too remained starved of love for long ever since 2008. Thank you dear EKL showering some love to it.