To a Lady who complained of being eighty years old. WHILE you with virtue, sense, and wit combine, Doris! that youth has fled, can you complain? To-day the queen of intellect you shine, As erst o'er love 'twas yours to reign. Reflect how few find winters like your own. In leaving you your mind, Time leaves you all. Doris! you do but pass from throne to throne; Can this be named 'to fall'? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE STIRRUP-CUP by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE TERRIBLE SONNETS: 3 by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS THE MAN-OF-WAR HAWK by HERMAN MELVILLE AN ARMY CORPS ON THE MARCH by WALT WHITMAN THE IRISH MOTHER IN THE PENAL DAYS by JOHN BANIM SONNET AGAINST THE DISPRAYSERS OF POETRIE by RICHARD BARNFIELD I WILL HAVE FAITH by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 23 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |