a reply

I was re-reading through a poem of old,
only to know how apt it is to life as told.

ELOISA TO ABELARD
by Alexander Pope
(a short extract)

Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy.
When at the close of each sad, sorrowful day,
Fancy restores what vegence snatch'd away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
Oh cur'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Demons all restraint remove,
and stir within me every source of love.

I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
and round thy phantom glue my clasping arms
I wake--no more i hear, no more i view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call it aloud; it hears not what i say;
I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more i close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!

Alas, no more--me thinks we wand'ring go
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe,
Where round some mould'ring tower pale ivy creeps,
and low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the skies;
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
and wake to all the griefs i left behind.