HE praised the greatness of the child I bore, As free from sickness, gifted with long days; And when he had said all, to comfort me About my heavenly fortune sang a hymn. And I then hoped that Phoebus' holy lips Could never lie in their prophetic art. But he who sang, who stood there at the feast, Who said these words, he is the very one Who slew my son. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MODERN LOVE: 34 by GEORGE MEREDITH I AM THE WAY' by ALICE MEYNELL THE GIFT by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL FIDELIA: 4. THE AUTHOR'S RESOLUTION IN A SONNET by GEORGE WITHER SONNET WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914: 2 by GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY PATRIOTIC SONG by ERNST MORITZ ARNDT THE IRISH MOTHER IN THE PENAL DAYS by JOHN BANIM |