None ever was in love with me but grief.
She wooed my from the day that I was born;
She stole my playthings first, the jealous thief,
And left me there forlorn.
The birds that in my garden would have sung,
She scared away with her unending moan;
She slew my lovers too when I was young,
And left me there alone.
Grief, I have cursed thee often—now at last
To hate thy name I am no longer free;
Caught in thy bony arms and prisoned fast,
I love no love but thee.
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