A SUMMER STORM

Alas! how frail and weak a little boat

I have sailed in. I call it Happiness,

And I had thought there was not storm nor stress

Of wind so masterful but it would float

Blithely in their despite; but lo! one note

Of harsh discord, one word of bitterness,

And a fierce overwhelming wilderness

Of angry waters chokes my gasping throat.

I am near drowned in this unhappy sea,

I will not strive, let me lie still and sink,

I have no joy to live. Oh! unkind love!

Why have you wounded me so bitterly?

That am as easily wounded as a dove

Who has a silver throat and feet of pink.

Lord Alfred Douglas