Sweet child, thou wast my bird by day, My bird that never failed in song; That on my bosom wast a bee, And layst there all night long: No more I'll hear thy voice at noon, For Death has pierced thee with a thorn; No more thou'lt sleep upon my breast, And trample it at morn. Then break, oh break, poor empty cage, The bird is dead, thy use is done; And die, poor plant, for your sweet bee Is gone, for ever gone. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHAT THE BULLET SANG by FRANCIS BRET HARTE TWELVE ARTICLES by JONATHAN SWIFT CLING TO THY MOTHER by GEORGE WASHINGTON BETHUNE EXTEMPORE, ON MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE by ROBERT BURNS PUTTING THE CREAM IN THE WELL OF VERMONT by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY THE LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN: 5. THE LEGEND OF LUCRECE by GEOFFREY CHAUCER |