Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 213

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CCXIII HELPLESS
Only for thee I fly the joyful sunAnd mar the gladsome features of the day;But labour lost is all this labour done,My travail gives thee not an hour of play.My sleepless nights I consecrate to thee,Thou canst not sleep the sounder, Love, for me.
My striving cannot bring thee rest from strife,Nor all my weariness one moment's ease;Thou hast a secret bitterness to wife.Love's born of woes, but not such woes as these.Last woe of all, my life for thee I give,But dying, I can never make thee live.
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