Ye with your phantom bows, and sinews straining Toward Life's mute priestess hid behind her shield, Base loves have puffed the fire wherethrough ye wield Beauty to loose the shafts that should be raining Thick on her targe, and to a furious feigning Is the proud passion of your blood congealed. Like frustrate flames ye poise, and hold the field Through love's long sleep, of life no conquest gaining. There, in your rearward, Age contorted tries At last to bend true beauty to his power, Lacking the arrows of his youth's bright dower Who might have loosed them on an high emprise. Here, by base uses of your noblest hour Transfixed, ye strain, and still no arrow flies! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MY DEAR FRIEND, MR. CONGREVE, ON HIS COMEDY, 'THE DOUBLE-DEALER' by JOHN DRYDEN THE VANISHERS by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER QUATRAIN: FROM EASTERN SOURCES: 2 by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ROMEO AND JULIET by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH A NAMELESS EPITAPH (2) by MATTHEW ARNOLD FRAGRANCE by MAGDELEN EDEN BOYLE |