Helpless

Only for thee I fly the joyful sun
And mar the gladsome features of the day;
But labour lost is all this labour done,
My travail gives thee not an hour of play.
My sleepless nights I consecrate to thee,
Thou canst not sleep the sounder, Love, for me.

My striving cannot bring thee rest from strife,
Nor all my weariness one moment's ease;
Thou hast a secret bitterness to wife.
Love's born of woes, but not such woes as these.
Last woe of all, my life for thee I give,
But dying, I can never make thee live.