Explore "Sonnets" by Helen Hay Whitney on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
If I might see you dead, Beloved -- dead -- / Your false eyes closed forever to the light, / Your false smile stilled upon my aching sight; / If I might know that nevermore your head, / Cruelly fair, could lie upon the bed / Of my torn heart; if I beheld the night / Free from your living thought -- ah! if I might, / Then could my desolate soul be comforted.
For this is worst of all the woes you gave -- / My heart may not forgive. The tired years go / And leave the great love weeping for a grave, / Scorned and unburied, 'neath the open sky.