While yet these tears have power to flow For hours for ever past away; While yet these swelling sighs allow My faltering voice to breathe a lay; While yet my hand can touch the chords, My tender lute, to wake thy tone; While yet my mind no thought affords, But one remembered dream alone, I ask not death, whate'er my state: But when my eyes can weep no more, My voice is lost, my hand untrue. And when my spirit's fire is o'er, Nor can express the love it knew, Come, Death, and cast thy shadows o'er my fate!
- by Louise Labe31
Long-felt desires, hopes as long as vain-- sad sighs--slow tears accustomed to run sad into as many rivers as two eyes could add, pouring like fountains, endless as the rain-- cruelty beyond humanity, a pain so hard it makes compassionate stars go mad with pity: these are the first passions I've had. Do you think love could root in my soul again? If it arched the great bow back again at me, licked me again with fire, and stabbed me deep with the violent worst, as awful as before, the wounds that cut me everwhere would keep me shielded, so there would be no place free for love. It covers me. It can pierce no more.
Poems by Louise Labe, Louise Labe's poems collection. Louise Labe is a classical and famous poet (1524 - 1566 / France). Share all poems of Louise Labe.