I'll try no more—'tis all in vain
To rack for wit my head,
While every chamber of my brain
By thee is tenanted.
Thoughts will not come—words will not flow
Except when thus toward thee they go.
Oh! thou wert born to be my blight,
My bane upon this earth—
Fate did my doom that moment write
In which those eyes had birth.
'Tis strange that aught so good, so pure,
Should work the evil I endure.
Thou darkenest each hope that flings
O'er life one sunny ray;
And to each joy thou lendest wings
To take itself away.
Yet hope and joy—oh what to me
Are they, unless they spring from thee.
I'll try no more—'tis all in vain
To rack for wit my head,
While every chamber of my brain
By thee is tenanted.
Thoughts will not come—words will not flow
Except when thus toward thee they go.