Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair; Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air. Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above; O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, I too could glide to the bower of my love! Ah where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forests far away. Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest, Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me, Come, this fond bosom, O faithfulest and fairest, Bleeds with its death-wound its wound of love for thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HE RULETH NOT THROUGH HE RAIGNE OVER REALMES by THOMAS WYATT FORECLOSURE by STERLING ALLEN BROWN THE PROSPECT by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN by BRYAN WALLER PROCTER TEMPEST by ANITA CONCHITA ALLMON THE HEAVENS ARE OUR RIDDLE by HERBERT BATES THE SEVEN OLD MEN; TO VICTOR HUGO by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE |