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Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Sonnet II. On A Discovery Made Too Late
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Thou bleedest, my poor heart! and thy distress
  Reas`ning I ponder with a scornful smile
  And probe thy sore wound sternly, tho` the while
Swollen be mine eye and dim with heaviness.
Why didst thou listen to Hope`s whisper bland?
  Or list`ning, why forget the healing tale,
  When Jealousy with fev`rish fancies pale
Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac`s hand?
Faint was that Hope, and rayless!--Yet `twas fair,
  And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest:
  Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest,
And nursed it with an agony of care,
Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir,
  That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!
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