You have ask'd for a verse -- the request, In a rhymer, 't were strange to deny; But my Hippocrene was but my breast, And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. Were I now as I was, I had sung What Lawrence has pencill'd so well; But the strain would expire on my tongue, And the theme is too soft for my shell. I am ashes where once I was fire, And the bard in my bosom is dead; What I loved I now merely admire, And my heart is as grey as my head. My life is not dated by years; There are moments which act as a plough; And there is not a furrow appears But is deep in my soul as my brow. Let the young and the brilliant aspire To sing what I gaze on in vain; For Sorrow has torn from my lyre The string which was worthy the strain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO A POET THAT DIED YOUNG by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY THE WRITER'S JOURNAL: POSSESSION by BAYARD TAYLOR THE LAMP OF HERO by LOUISE VICTORINE ACKERMANN CLIO, NINE ECLOGUES IN HONOUR OF NINE VIRTUES: TO THE READER by WILLIAM BASSE THE SHEEPHERD by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |