Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/225

165 OF

MARGARET OF

art thou, my beloved Son,

Where art thou, worse to me than dead?

Oh find me, prosperous or undone!

Or, if the grave be now thy bed,

Why am I ignorant of the same

That I may rest; and neither blame

Nor sorrow may attend thy name?

Seven years, alas! to have received

No tidings of an only child;

To have despaired, and have believed,

And be for evermore beguiled;

Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!

I catch at them, and then I miss;

Was ever darkness like to this?