Wilfrid Scawen Blunt (1840 - 1922 / England)

TO ONE WHOM HE HAD LOVED TOO LONG
Why do I cling to thee, sad love? Too long
Thou bringest me neither pleasure to my soul
Nor profit to my reason save in song,
My daily utterance. See, thy beggar's dole
Of foolish tears cannot my tears cajole;
Thy laughter doth my laughter grievous wrong;
Thy anger angereth me; thou heapest coal
Of fire upon my head the drear night long
With thy forgiveness. What is this thou wilt?
Mine ears have ceased to hear, my tongue to speak,
And naught is left for my spent heart to do.
Love long has left the feast; the cup is spilt.
Let us go too. The dawn begins to break,
And there is mockery in this heaven of blue.