Tell me a story, dear

from "Tuscan Cypress" in An Italian Garden
A. Mary F. Robinson

XI
Tell me a story, dear, that is not true.
Strange as a vision, full of splendid things;
Here will I lie and dream it is not you,
and dream it is a mocking bird that sings.

For if I find your voice in any part.
Even the sound of it will break my heart;
For if you speak of us and of our love,
I faint and die to feel the thrill thereof.

XVI
Come away Sorrow, Sorrow come away -
Let us go sit in some cool, shadowy place;
There shall you sing and hush me all the day,
While I will dream about my lover's face

Hush me, O Sorrow, like a babe to sleep.
Then close the lids above mine eyes that weep;
Rock me, O Sorrow, like a babe in pain,
Nor, when I slumber, wake me up again.


There is always that one class that you struggle to engage with. The one that you have to drag yourself to. The one that you put off doing the work for because it doesn't interest you at all. That class for me this semester is Victorian Lit. I was excited for the class. I love Victorian novels, and the last time I took a Victorian Lit class it was rather enjoyable. But the works we are studying are failing to engage me and the approach of the class does nothing but frustrate me. I once had a wise professor tell me that the key in each class is to find something that you love, something that fascinates you, and to focus as much energy into that as you can. Well until tonight all my efforts to do this in Victorian had been for naught. And then I read A. Mary F. Robinson. I think I found my in. Her works aren't particularly happy - in fact they are characterized by the horrors of the world and marked by a deep sorrow - but my favourite poets almost always have this. I love the opening lines of poem XI. So, tell me a story, dear.