My Grief Poem by Bedros Tourian

TO thirst with sacred longings,
And find the springs all dry,
And in my flower to fade, — not this
The grief for which I sigh.
Ere yet my cold, pale brow has been
Warmed by an ardent kiss,
To rest it on a couch of earth,—
My sorrow is not this.
Ere I embrace a live bouquet
Of beauty, smiles and fire,
The cold grave to embrace, — not this
Can bitter grief inspire.
Ere a sweet, dreamful sleep has lulled
My tempest-beaten brain,
To slumber in an earthy bed, —
Ah, this is not my pain.
My country is forlorn, a branch
Withered on life’s great tree ;
To die unknown, ere succoring her, —
This only grieveth me !