Like Hermit Poor
Like to a hermit poor, in place obscure,
I mean to spend my days of endless doubt,
To wail such woes as time cannot recure,
Where none but Love shall ever find me out.
My food shall be of care and sorrow made;
My drink nought else but tears fall'n from mine eyes;
And for my light, in such obscurèd shade,
The flames shall serve which from my heart arise.
A gown of grief my body shall attire;
And broken hope shall be my strength and stay;
And late repentance, linked with long desire,
Shall be the couch whereon my limbs I’ll lay.
And at my gate Despair shall linger still,
To let in Death when Love and Fortune will.
-- Sir Walter Raleigh