THROW by the trappings of your tinsel rhyme! Hush the crude voice, whose never-ending wail Blights the sweet song of thrush, or nightingale, -- Set to the treble of our querulous time; Is earth grown dim? Hath heaven her grace sublime, Her pomp of clouds, and winds, and sunset showers Merged in the twilight of funereal hours, And Time's death-signal struck its iron chime? O! false, frail dreamer! not one tiniest note From yonder green-girt copse, but whispers "shame!" -- Love, beauty, rapture, swell the warbler's throat, -- The self-same joy, the passion blithe and young, Thrilled by the force of whose immaculate flame, The first glad stars, the stars of morning, sung! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CINQUAIN: SUSANNA AND THE ELDERS by ADELAIDE CRAPSEY SEA GODS: 1 by HILDA DOOLITTLE FOR A DEAD LADY by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 1 by ALFRED TENNYSON AH, BIND MY HANDS by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS PERFECT UNION by MATHILDE BLIND THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 46. FAREWELL TO JULIET (8) by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |