Stanchless

A stanchlesse hart, dead-wounded, euer bleeding, On whom that nere-fild vulture Loue sits feeding.

1819, Jeremiah Holmes Wiffen, “Aspley Wood” Canto 2, stanza 26, in Aonian Hours and Other Poems, London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme & Brown, 2nd edition, 1820, p. 82, We see, but cannot heal the stanchless wound, We share its gushing sorrow, still it bleeds;

And while I listed long, Day rose, and still he sang, And all his stanchless song, As something falling unaware, Fell out of the tall trees he sang among,

In his little red notebook the following random thoughts formed and were jotted down, like the slow interior overflow of a stanchless music.

With this there grows In my most ill-composed affection such A stanchless avarice that, were I king, I should cut off the nobles for their lands,

This loosness to their spoyle the Troians did allure, Who fiercely them assail’d: where stanchlesse furie rap’t The Grecians in so fast, that scarcely one escap’t: