MORN on her rosy couch awoke, Enchantment led the hour, And mirth and music drank the dews That freshen Beauty's flower. Then from her bower of deep delight, I heard a young girl sing, "Oh, speak no ill of poetry, For 'tis a holy thing." The Sun in noon-day heat rose high, And on with heaving breast, I saw a weary pilgrim toil, Unpitied and unblest; Yet still in trembling measures flow'd Forth from a broken string, "Oh, speak no ill of poetry, For 'tis a holy thing." 'Twas night, and Death the curtains drew, 'Mid agony severe, While there a willing spirit went Home to a glorious sphere; Yet still it sigh'd, even when was spread The waiting Angel's wing, "Oh, speak no ill of poetry, For 'tis a holy thing." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GOOD FRIDAY HYMN by GEORGE SANTAYANA TWO VOYAGERS by EMILY DICKINSON THE PILGRIM by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD SONNET TO NICHOLAS BLACKLEECH OF GRAYES INNE by RICHARD BARNFIELD THE GERMAN BAND by EARL DERR BIGGERS THE DESERT WIND by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT RECIPROCAL KINDNESS THE PRIMARY LAW OF NATURE by VINCENT BOURNE |