It is not thou, my soul, that, sick and pale,
Shrinkest inept from every loud-tongued wrong;
I think of thy sole self thou couldest be strong
If that thy habitation did not quail.
Some flesh is doomed of mere excess to fail,-
Owning too many chords too highly strung,
Too many paths to lose the way among;-
Too perfect service simply to avail.
But howsoe’er my soul is ill at ease
In this her house, and would be free of it;
She cannot work her will if not in peace,
Or live in any place whence love would flit;
So Love, of my sad life obtain release,
Get better terms for me, or leave to quit.
(Emily Pfeiffer)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Soul Poems, War & Peace Poems, Place PoemsBased on Keywords: inept, couldest, loud-tongued, shrinkest