Defeated Poem by Heather Marie Mortimer

In this bitterest love
From love's borrowed bank,
So freely you spend
Tho of bitterest rank.
And the sun shines not brightly
In your eyes made from you,
Nor in moonbeam perceive nothing
Not defeat or of woo.
And so comfortable chaos
Breed in your own soul
Alone, lost, you wander
From your whims, to and fro.

Will you die here as such?
Never to be what you be?
Pains of passion are not much
Where in given, you be free.
Yet you hasten to pain
O, traveling misery
And run from its sight,
You know not to be free.