I rode past, thinking, recently, <br />Like one who's sad and sorrowful, <br />Of that lament that renders me <br />Of all lovers the most mournful, <br />Since, with his dart so dreadful, <br />Death has stolen my mistress, <br />And left me lonely: left me dull, <br />In the sole charge of Sadness. <br /> <br />I said to myself: ‘I should cease <br />Writing and rhyming, it appears, <br />Abandon laughter, and be pleased <br />To replace all this with tears. <br />And so I must employ my years, <br />Without heart or inclination <br />To pen a single thing, I fear, <br />That pleases me, or anyone. <br /> <br />If any would constrain my will <br />To write of happy things, <br />My pen would not possess the skill, <br />Nor my tongue the power to sing. <br />My lips could never part, in smiling, <br />Without a gaze that lips betrayed, <br />Since my heart would claim denial <br />Through the tears my cheeks displayed. <br /> <br />I leave it to the lover, who nurses <br />Hopes that his wound might heal, <br />To make ballads, songs and verses, <br />That each might his own skill reveal. <br />My lady, by her will, did steal <br />At her Death, God save her soul, <br />And carry away, my power to feel, <br />That lies with her beneath the stone.<br /><br />Alain Chartier<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/from-la-belle-dame-sans-merci/
