Thou bleedest, my poor heart! and thy distress <br />Reas'ning I ponder with a scornful smile <br />And probe thy sore wound sternly, tho' the while <br />Swollen be mine eye and dim with heaviness. <br />Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland? <br />Or list'ning, why forget the healing tale, <br />When Jealousy with fev'rish fancies pale <br />Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand? <br />Faint was that Hope, and rayless!--Yet 'twas fair, <br />And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest: <br />Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest, <br />And nursed it with an agony of care, <br />Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir, <br />That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!<br /><br />Samuel Taylor Coleridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-ii-on-a-discovery-made-too-late/
