Great poetry of William Wordsworth
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Love lies bleeding by William Wordsworth

You call it, “Love lies bleeding,” so you may,

Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops,

As we have seen it here from day to day,

From month to month, life passing not away:

A flower how rich in sadness! Even thus stoops,

(Sentient by Grecian sculpture’s marvelous power)

Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent

Earthward in uncomplaining languishment

The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower!

(‘Tis Fancy guides me willing to be led,

Though by a slender thread,)

So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew

Of his death-wound, when he from innocent air

The gentlest breath of resignation drew;

While Venus in a passion of despair

Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair

Spangled with drops of that celestial shower.

She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do;

But pangs more lasting far, ‘that’ Lover knew

Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some lone bower

Did press this semblance of unpitied smart

Into the service of his constant heart,

His own dejection, downcast Flower! could share

With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear.

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