Sonnet CCXLV: I Cannot Tell Thee, Sweet, What Tenderness
I cannot tell thee, Sweet, what tenderness
Flows from my heart, through chequered hopes and fears—
What mournful gladness and what sunny tears
Burden my joy, or lighten my distress—
At the mere thought that these, my lips, may press,
Ah! once again thy own; or fill thy ears
With those trite vows that freshen with the years,
And gather youth from each renewed caress.
Dreams, dreams! the hollow bosom of the night
Swallows my fancies, as in utter scorn
Of my poor effort to feel less forlorn;
And far away before my shrinking sight
Stretches the desert that divides us quite,
Under a gloom that knows no coming morn.
