Algernon Charles Swinburn

Wasted Love

What shall be done for sorrow
 With love whose race is run?
Where help is none to borrow,
 What shall be done?
 
In vain his hands have spun
 The web, or drawn the furrow:
No rest their toil hath won.
 
His task is all gone thorough,
 And fruit thereof is none:
And who dare say to-morrow
 What shall be done?
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