MY Lyre! thou art the bower of my senses, Where they may sleep in tuneful visions bound; These trembling chords shall be their breeze-kissed fences, Which are with music's tendrils warmly wound, As with some creeping shrub, which sweets dispenses And on each quivering stalk blossoms a sound. My lyre! thou art the barred prison grate Where shackled melody a bond-maid sleeps, And taunting breezes as her torturers wait: With radiant joy the hapless prisoner peeps And sings delight, with freedom's hope elate, When some fair hand upon the surface sweeps; And still she beats against the prison bars, Till silence comes and smothers her pert jars. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NORTH WIND TO DUTIFUL BEAST MIDWAY BETWEEN DIAL & FOOT OF GARDEN CLOCK by MARIANNE MOORE PARTING AT MORNING by ROBERT BROWNING TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. by JOHN KEATS THE LOW-BACKED CAR by SAMUEL LOVER SYMPHONY OF THE SOIL by EVA K. ANGLESBURG ON NANUS COUNTED ON AN ANT by DECIMUS MAGNUS AUSONIUS |