O Love, how thou art tired out with rhyme! Thou art a tree whereon all poets climb; And from thy branches every one takes some Of thy sweet fruit, which Fancy feeds upon. But now thy tree is left so bare and poor, That they can hardly gather one plum more. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COWSLIPS AND LARKS by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES ODE ON A GRECIAN URN by JOHN KEATS THE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS by RUDYARD KIPLING RORY O'MORE; OR, ALL FOR GOOD LUCK by SAMUEL LOVER THE LAW OF THE YUKON by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE ON A CHILD SLEEPING IN CYNTHIA'S LAP by PHILIP AYRES UNDER A THOUSAND WORDS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |