|
|
Wasted Love
By Algernon Charles Swinburne
What shall be done for sorrow
With love whose race is run?
Where help is none to borrow,
What shall be done?
In vain his hands have spun
The web, or drawn the furrow:
No rest their toil hath won.
His task is all gone thorough,
And fruit thereof is none:
And who dare say to-morrow
What shall be done?
Extra Info:
From "A Century of Roundels"
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 832 times.
|
|
