by: William Wordsworth
MORE POEMS BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
- HY art thou silent! Is thy love
- Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
- Of absence withers what was once so fair?
- Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
- Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant--
- Bound to thy service with unceasing care,
- The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
- For naught but what thy happiness could spare.
- Speak -- though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
- A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
- Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
- Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow
- 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine--
- Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know.