Ophelia's Song

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  • Sadness

    Ophelia's Song

    What do I know of life, here in my desolation?
    Gone into the gleam of gloom to find sweet consolation

    Never yet to find my way upon the sun-lit shores
    Never yet traverse that way when oft I’m missing oars

    Drown in my morosity, drown forevermore
    Down with all the verity that speaks for nevermore

    Never yet to taste the sun sweet berries of the earth
    Never yet to ride across the downs and dance with mirth

    Never yet to feel the flush of love upon my face
    Never yet to feel the glow of one whom I embrace

    Drown in my morosity, drown forevermore
    Down with all the verity that speaks for nevermore

    Never yet to battle with the fears that grow within
    Never yet to know where I will go and where I’ve been

    Never ever once to know the evening from the day
    Nevermore to think of what to do and what to say

    Drown in my morosity, drown forevermore
    Down with all the verity that speaks for nevermore

    Never yet to take a bow from on an empty stage
    Never yet to find the key, release me from my cage

    Never yet to cry for one whose love I shan’t forget
    Never yet to be the one to meet and back be met

    Drown in my morosity, drown forevermore
    Down with all the verity that speaks for nevermore

    Never felt the sun upon my gloomy countenance
    Never felt the arms of one who leads me in a dance

    Never once to build a house for me and for my love
    Never quite to feel the smile from my God above

    Drown in my morosity, drown forevermore
    Down with all the verity that speaks for nevermore

    Never yet to laugh with all the joy within my heart
    Never yet to cry with one who lets me fall apart

    Nevermore stand in the rain and taste my tears of salt
    Nevermore to be the one to blame and stand at fault

    Drown in my morosity, drown forevermore
    Down with all the verity that speaks for nevermore

    Drowning in a solitude that makes for me my grave
    Drowning in a restless sea from which no man can save

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    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    LadyBri1981’s Poems (20)

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