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.

Poem Submitted: Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Poem Edited: Tuesday, October 6, 2009

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Comments about The Cup Of Sorrows by John Eliot

  • Terri Turrell (11/18/2009 3:03:00 PM)

    Yay! You are not alone, trust me. This 'old style' writing is very much still in style and you represent it well with this verse. applause! I, too, enjoy penning this style, see The Cinquefoil as one of my newest

    http: // show=poem&poem=20152372

    very well done, poet

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  • Ernestine NorthoverErnestine Northover (11/6/2009 1:40:00 PM)

    Again a delightful piece of work, the flow is brilliant and it speaks to you so well. I enjoyed reading this very much. Well done.
    love Ernestine XXX

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  • Sayeed AbubakarSayeed Abubakar (11/5/2009 11:24:00 PM)

    Use of rhyme and rhythm has charmed me a lot. Thanks for your nicely written poem.
    _ Sayeed Abubakar

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