My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow With thy green mother in some shady grove, When immelodious winds but made thee move, And birds their ramage did on thee bestow. Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve, Which wont in such harmonious strains flow, Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above, What are thou but a harbinger of woe? Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear; Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear; For which be silent as in woods before: Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOLY THURSDAY, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE FIRE, FAMINE AND SLAUGHTER. A WAR ECLOGUE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE UNDER HOUSE ARREST IN WINDSOR by HENRY HOWARD EVENING IN ENGLAND by FRANCIS LEDWIDGE IN AN ARTIST'S STUDIO by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI VILLANELLE OF CITY AND COUNTRY by ZOE AKINS WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH OPEN THY HEART by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS THE STEAM-ENGINE: CANTO 10. THE DEATH OF HUSKISSON by T. BAKER |