"WHAT have we but an empty song?" Said the minstrel, as he bent To stay the fingers that trailed along The strings of her instrument. "The clasp of your hand is warm in mine, And your breath on my brow is wet -- I have drunk of your lips as men drink wine, But my heart is thirsty yet." The starlight shivered a little space, And the sigh of the wind uprose And blew a cloud o'er the moon's wan face, And swooned back in repose. . . . . . . . The years ooze on in a stagnant flood: One drifts as the winds allow; And one writes rhymes with his heart's own blood, But his soul is thirsty now. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONG FOR JULY 12TH, 1843 by JOHN DE JEAN FRAZER ODE ON THE SPRING by THOMAS GRAY MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND [SEPTEMBER 17, 1862] by GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP THE WANDERING JEW by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON TO W. HOHENZOLLERN: A PLEA by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE ARGONAUTS (ARGONATUICA): MEDEA'S PARTING WORDS by APOLLONIUS RHODIUS |