Untitled Metaphor #8

What is it that I feel? I cannot tell.
For though it seems the sunbeams wear your face,
And I would ever echo Shakespeare’s lines
That parting is indeed “such sweet sorrow” —
Yet now poetic melodrama’s strains,
Which fountained from my pen scarce months ago,
Now sit disused within my “feeble brain”
Like an old attic’s sofas, long replaced.
For even if you promised in some anger
That you would never speak to me again,
Then even though a part of me would break,
Another part, though weeping on its way,
Would still give God the glory for these months
That he has lent me glory through your voice.

I probably wrote this in my junior year of college (based on where it stands in the series of Untitled Metaphors), but don’t remember when. I’ve cross-posted this to my wiki. Feedback of any kind, whether critique, praise, interrogative, reply, or suggestion (especially of what to post next), or anything else, is eagerly requested and greatly appreciated.


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