When I thy singing next shall heare, Ile wish I might turne all to eare, To drink in Notes, and Numbers; such As blessed soules cann't heare too much: Then melted down, there let me lye Entranc'd, and lost confusedly: And by thy Musique strucken mute, Die, and be turn'd into a Lute. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WINDFLOWER LEAF by CARL SANDBURG IN ROMNEY MARSH by JOHN DAVIDSON LIFE'S MIRROR by MARY AINGE DE VERE VORTICIST POEM ON LOVE by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE STEAM-ENGINE: CANTO 6. ON THE CORK PACKET, 1837 by T. BAKER HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 10 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |