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Herbert Marshall
All your sorrow, Louise, and hatred of me Sprang from your delusion that it was wantonness Of spirit and contempt of your soul’s rights Which made me turn to Annabelle and forsake you You really grew to hate me for love of me, Because I was your soul’s happiness, Formed and tempered To solve your life for you, and would not. But you were my misery. If you had been My happiness would I not have clung to you? This is life’s sorrow: That one can be happy only where two are; And that our hearts are drawn to stars Which want us not.
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The Sorrow of Love
The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves, The brilliant moon and all the milky sky, And all that famous harmony of leaves, Had blotted out man's image and his cry.
A girl arose that had red mournful lips And seemed the greatness of the world in tears, Doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships And proud as Priam murdered with his peers;
Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves, A climhing moon upon an empty sky, And all that lamentation of the leaves, Could but compose man's image and his cry.
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