I am troubled to-night with a curious pain; <br /> <br />It is not of the flesh, it is not of the brain, <br /> <br />Nor yet of a heart that is breaking: <br /> <br />But down still deeper, and out of sight— <br /> <br />In the place where the soul and the body unite— <br /> <br />There lies the scat of the aching. <br /> <br />They have been lovers in days gone by; <br /> <br />But the soul is fickle, and longs to fly <br /> <br />From the fettering mesalliance: <br /> <br />And she tears at the bonds which are binding her so, <br /> <br />And pleads with the body to let her go, <br /> <br />But he will not yield compliance. <br /> <br />For the body loves, as he loved in the past, <br /> <br />When he wedded the soul; and he holds her fast, <br /> <br />And swears that he will not loose her; <br /> <br />That he will keep her and hide her away <br /> <br />For ever and ever and for a day <br /> <br />From the arms of Death, the seducer. <br /> <br />Ah! this is the strife that is wearying me— <br /> <br />The strife 'twixt a soul that would be free <br /> <br />And a body that will not let her. <br /> <br />And I say to my soul, 'Be calm, and wait; <br /> <br />For I tell ye truly that soon or late <br /> <br />Ye surely shall drop each fetter.' <br /> <br />And I say to the body, 'Be kind, I pray; <br /> <br />For the soul is not of thy mortal clay, <br /> <br />But is formed in spirit fashion.' <br /> <br />And still through the hours of the solemn night <br /> <br />I can hear my sad soul's plea for flight, <br /> <br />And my body's reply of passion.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mesalliance/
