Why, through each aching vein, with lazy pace Thus steals the languid fountain of my heart, While, from its source, each wild convulsive start Tears the scorched roses from my burning face? In vain, O Lesbian Vales! your charms I trace; Vain is the poet's theme, the sculptor's art; No more the lyre its magic can impart, Though waked to sound, with more than mortal grace! Go, tuneful maids, go bid my Phaon prove That passion mocks the empty boast of fame; Tell him no joys are sweet, but joys of love, Melting the soul, and thrilling all the frame! Oh! may the ecstatic thought in bosom move, And sighs of rapture, fan the blush of shame! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CRADLE SONG AT TWILIGHT by ALICE MEYNELL THE ORCHARD PIT by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI BARBARA FRIETCHIE [SEPTEMBER 13, 1862] by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER TO A SHADE by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS ON GRACE CHURCH CORNER by WILLIAM ROSE BENET RETURN TO TOMHANICK by ANN ELIZA BLEECKER IN WILTSHIRE; SUGGESTED BY POINTS OF SIMILARITY WITH THE SOMME COUNTRY by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |