Among the myriad voices of the Spring What were the voice of my supreme desire, What were my cry amid the vernal choir, Or my complaint before the gods that sing? O too late love, O flight on wounded wing, Infinite hope my lips should not suspire, Why, when the world is thine, my grief require, Or mock my dear-bought patience with thy sting? Though I be mute, the birds will in the boughs Sing as in every April they have sung, And, though I die, the incense of heart-vows Will float to heaven, as when I was young. But, O ye beauties I must never see, How great a lover have you lost in me! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOR ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S EVE by MALCOLM COWLEY BONNYBELL: THE GRAY SPHEX by EDGAR LEE MASTERS AT CASTLE WOOD by EMILY JANE BRONTE THE MOCKING BIRD by SIDNEY LANIER TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN: THE FIRST DAY: PRELUDE. THE WAYSIDE INN by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW |