WITHER away, green leaves, Wither away, sweet flowers; For me in vain young Spring has thrown Her mantle o'er the bowers: Sing not to me, gay birds, Borne in bright plumage hither; The heart recoils from pleasure's voice When all its fond hopes wither! Wither away, my friends, Whom I have loved sincerely; 'T is hard to sigh for the silent tomb As a place of rest, so early! While others prize the rose, The cypress wreath I'll gather; The heart recoils from pleasure's voice When all its fond hopes wither. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAUN [OR, FAWN] by ANDREW MARVELL MARCHING (AS SEEN FROM THE LEFT FILE) by ISAAC ROSENBERG A RECEIPT TO CURE THE VAPOURS by MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU COMPLAINS, BEING HIND'RED THE SIGHT OF HIS NYMPH by PHILIP AYRES TO HIS INGENIOUS FRIEND, MR. N. TATE by PHILIP AYRES |