Why should she think it devil's art
That all my songs should be
Of love and lovers, broken heart,
And wild sweet agony?
Why should she think it devil's art
That all my songs should be
Of love and lovers, broken heart,
And wild sweet agony?
Dead men alone are satiate;
They sleep and dream and have no weight,
To curb their rest, of love or hate.
I have no will to weep or sing,
No least desire to pray or curse;
The loss of love is a terrible thing;
They lie who say that death is worse.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories