The girl who was once my mistress is dead now, I learn, in childbirth. I thought that long ago women ceased dying this way. To set records straight, our enmity relaxes, I wrote a verse for her -- to dole her by pieces, ring finger and lock of hair. But I'm a poor Midas to turn her golden, to make a Helen, grand whore, of this graceless girl; the sparrow that died was only a sparrow: @3Though in the dark, she doesn't sleep. On cushions, embraced by silk, no lover comes to her. In the first light when birds stir she does not stir or sing. Oh eyes can't focus to this dark.@1 | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LITTLE GIRL FOUND, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE RUBAIYAT, 1879 EDITION: 17 by OMAR KHAYYAM WOMAN'S BEAUTY by LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE ODE ON VENICE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |