The worke is done: young men, and maidens set Upon my curles the Mirtle Coronet, Washt with sweet ointments; Thus at last I come To suffer in the Muses Martyrdome: But with this comfort, if my blood be shed, The Muses will weare blackes, when I am dead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TRANCE by LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE PRAYER AFTER YOUTH by MAXWELL ANDERSON SALOME by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE |