THERE is no anguish like the mourning heart,
That mourns for its lost love and mourns in vain;
That is the anguish which defies all pain—
Torture at which Prometheus’ soul would start!
What agony can still the heart of joy,
That holds its loved one to its surging breast?
All hell can rage and not disturb that rest—
Then Stygian tortures are but pain’s alloy!
And what is absence but a gaping sore,
That aches and suffers every stinging thrust?
A burning lesion, or a bleeding rent,
That rives the soul of lovers to the core?
When hearts in absence stronger grow, then must
Those hearts have held no lover’s aliment!