AGAINST this thorny Present shows Your memory like the dew; Each maid a wrinkled Beauty goes, When I do think of you. Folded away in the deep grass, What is it can befall? Nor Clouds that fade, nor Gusts that pass, Nor any Grief at all. Now lovers write their verses brave; Now buds start on the tree; But Love went with you to the grave, The sere leaf bides with me. I have not any word save this; My tears are all my store; The fairer that the weather is I miss you but the more. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BEETHOVEN'S THIRD SYMPHONY by RICHARD HOVEY A LITTLE WHILE by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI FEELINGS OF A REPUBLICAN ON THE FALL OF BONAPARTE by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY A DEDICATION by EDMUND JOHN ARMSTRONG |