HARK! O hark! you guilty trees, In whose gloomy galleries Was the cruel'st murder done That e'er yet eclips'd the sun. Be then henceforth in your twigs Blasted, ere you sprout to sprigs; Feel no season of the year, But what shaves off all your hair; Nor carve any from your wombs Aught but coffins and their tombs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HAWORTH CHURCHYARD by MATTHEW ARNOLD FATHER WILLIAM [QUESTIONED], FR. ALICE IN WONDERLAND by CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON PARADISE by FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER ANACTORIA by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE I DREAM I'M LEAVING by MARGARET AHO EUMARES by ASCLEPIADES OF SAMOS HELLENS RAPE; OR A LIGHT LANTHORNE FOR LIGHT LADIES by RICHARD BARNFIELD |