PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I sit at meals, but ne’er a bite do taste:

Too weak am I with love to eat my food.

Though some have said the love is sweet and good,

Afflicted by’t, I rise and leave my place.

I lie abed, though all my sleep is chased

By cruel love, whose heart is stone and wood.

If remedy had I, cure love I would

But ‘stead I lie awake with pale, wan face.

With hail of poisoned arrows struck am I,

The archer’s darts, like tears, upon me rain.

They pierce my heart, and venom fills my veins,

My throat is sore because of constant cries.

Now I pass through the low-lintel'd threshold

Of love, and lie, not sleeping, but so cold.