Oh! sigh no more, no longer paint the air
With the distempered pictures of thy brain!
The sighs are idle, and the shapes are vain
Before thy reason's cold, unwinking stare.
Why wound thy heart with arrows of despair,
By love's shrewd shaft already cleft in twain?
Why drag and drag a still unfolding chain,
If rest will make thy shackles less to bear?
Thus with myself I sometimes strive in thought,
To reason down the love that preys upon
Heart, mind, life, soul, and feeds on all as one.
As well might poor Prometheus, distraught
With the fierce eagle's hungry claws, be brought
To turn his face and smile against the sun.