TOO oft, when our new minstrels sing, How fine so-e'er the Song be wrought, We catch behind the stricken string Some touch that tells the music taught Less by an impulse than a thought: -- Not so with thine, O Poet, where We breathe again the passionate air, And feel, at Love's divine commands, Once more the joy too keen to bear, And the hot tears upon our hands. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EFFIGY OF A NUN (SIXTEENTH CENTURY) by SARA TEASDALE RAIN by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON SONG OF THE FLOUR-MILL by EDWIN ARNOLD A SONNET. OF LOVE by PHILIP AYRES A PREPARATORY HYMNE TO THE WEEK OF MEDITACIONS UPON, & DEVOUT EXERCISE by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |