OH say not, my love, with that mortified air, That your spring-time of pleasure is flown, Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair For those raptures that still are thine own. Though April his cemples may wreathe with the vine, Its tendrils in infancy curled, 'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine, Whose life-blood enlivens the world. Though thy form, that was fashioned as light as a fay's, Has assumed a proportion more round, And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze, Looks soberly now on the ground; Enough, after absence ot meet me again, Thy steps still with ecstasy move; Enough, that those dear sober glances retain For me the kind language of love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN A GONDOLA by ROBERT BROWNING AT CASTLE BOTEREL by THOMAS HARDY COLUMBUS by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER CROSSING THE PLAINS by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY by JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER TO NIGHT by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY |