Comments about John Eliot
The Cup Of Sorrows
Give me no more, out of the urn-
Of life that wretched vintage to fill
My little cup, for it would still
My weary pulse: my senses burn;
Aching they pine for ecstacy.
Even music fails to move the stone
That hides in my heart. I alone
Can feel the painful sting of misery.
No more, O give no more again!
With-hold from weeping into my bowl
Those sorrows. My long fettered soul
Would at last taste bliss drowning all pain-
Poetry will fill the part that'll remain.
At last of the cup felicity shall I drain.