Had birds no season for their precious songs, What would we call them but a common pest? Since Music's now a manufactured thing, Potted and churned in every house we pass — Think of the birds, how they more wisely sing. That Paradise we dreamed of years ago, When Music, rarely heard, was thought divine, Is for the 'Damned', and not the 'Happy Blest'; Since, fed by force, with Music cheapened so — Is there no quiet place to sleep or rest? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SYMPATHY (2) by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR TRAVEL by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON MONODY ON THE ASTOR HOUSE by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 5. THE LOCH by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS: BOOK 1. THE FIFTH SONG by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY: 8. TROCHAIC VERSE: THE FOURTH EPIGRAM by THOMAS CAMPION |