To love, or not to love, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the heart to bear
The stings and sorrows of companionship,
Or to use sense against a troubled conscience.
And by opposing, silence all clamor
Disguised as something much more endearing.
No more; and still, loss relays confession
Of heart-ache and a thousand natural shocks.
To put these restless feelings to their sleep
Is to eradicate what might have been.
To sleep, perchance to rest - there’s the rub!
For in that sleep of love what peace may come,
When we have at last shed this mortal skin?
Now give us pause—here is the hollowness
That makes calamity of love so long.
For who would bear the ache and burn of love,
Or bear to break under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after love.
The undiscovere'd loneliness, from whose bourn
No wanderer returns, puzzles the will
That makes us rather bear those ills we have
Then join to a heart that we know not of?
Separation doth make cowards of us.
And thus the native hue of relief
Is tainted o'er the pale cast of longing.
Matters of the heart, swept by their currents
Turn awry till they lose the name of action.
Erika Dunion